Jon Elkon

Author: Jon Elkon

  • Mr Toad’s Diary!

    Sunday

    Dear Deary

    Sooooo proud! Today I finally moved in to the big fucking ugly Pennsylvania Avenue house, which I used to call “The Black House” and which, from now on and forever, is going to be called Toad Hall. You watch me, within six months this is going to be the greatest, the most magnificent, the best house in the world! Once me and Mrs Toad get those fabulous designers in here, the ones who made Toad Tower such a genuinely outstanding and wonderful building and an example to the whole universe, the transformation will begin! Gilding, angels, gold everywhere. I love gold. It so expresses my big wonderful fantastic and, let’s face it (using my favourite word) GREAT personality. How Vlad loved his time visiting me at Toad Tower and by the time he visits me here at Toad Hall, he will be soooo proud of me and sooo delighted with his choice to lead this fantastic country.

    Sooo glad that darn Inaugurittion is over. I had to stand next to that miserable titless immigrant I musta married when I was drunk, the whole time! You won’t believe what she was wearing, trying to look like that Jackie Kennedy, with her arse and her tits totally flattened by some kinda designer shit. Thank heavens the Trumpettes were there! Wowie, aren’t they they fabulousest of the fabulous, with their great asses and tits that make your balls ache. Note: Must organise a hotel room soon.

    I have been having great (oh that fabulous word again!) fun appointing my cab! All I had to do was Google “Swamp Creatures” and all these names just bounced up. So every name of anyone who ever tweeted about hating something, I made them in charge! Liberals consider your asses kicked! See? I told you when you wouldn’t make me the Democrat candidate way back then, I would get my revenge. Oh how you laughed at me! Well you aint laughing NOW are you, Mr New York Times, Mr CNN, all you liberal bullshit sellers. I’m gonna FUCK with your HEADS until you scream, hear! I will TORMENT you with everything you hate most until you all get on bended knees and say “Sorry, Toad, I didn’t mean it and I love you really!” WATCH!

    I have also, dear dairy, chosen a great team of Weasels to protect my security – went to a Weasel meeting yesterday and boy how they love me! Gonna fire any that know about those kisses between me and Vlad natch. those guys gotta go.

    Well, now I gotta make a start tearing up this stupid Democracy and shit. First comes health, I can’t believe the way the Muslim Black Guy (I am going to call him BG from now on, I can’t bear his stupid Islam name) took so much profit away from my buddies! I promised them to fix it, and those Disposables who voted for me are all for it. Idiots! Har. They looooooove me. Even when they are lying in the street dying from accidents they’re gonna be crying out “Thank you dear Toad! I looooove you!” After all no-one could be more of a friend to those dumb creatures, no one could support them more, no one could ever get so much GREAT love from so many GREAT people!

    And then I’m gonna start my great Climate Destruction plan. There is SO much profit in that you won’t believe. That Dakota pipe, my God the money in that! I had to promise lots of my swamp guys a bite of that pie but hell you know to keep your buddies close you gotta feed them pie. And now I got the biggest, the fattest, the GREATEST the most wonderful pie in history!

    So you wait, America, Uncle Toad is coming to get you!!!

     

    Notes: 1) find bastards who speak foreign and didn’t vote for me and expel from country.

    2) find all pictures of inaug day from above and get photogs arrested for paedophilia. Weasels to arrange.

    3) collect dirt on all journalists for later use.

     

    Thursday

    Dear Dowry

    Soo excided! It’s been all go here at Toad Hall so I haven’t had a chance to write in you, old friend.

    My campaign of FUCK THE LIBERALS is going very well I have to say. This is gonna be the greatest ass-kicking in history! I have squashed BG the fucking Muslim’s Unhealth plans! I have SQUASHED every bullshit climate change document or policy from the Black House so now Toad Hall is in charge, all my buddies are gonna be SO rich. I mean, even more richerer than ever before! See what happens to Exxon Mobil shares this week.

    What else. Got the Wall started, that’ll be such a great source of contracts for the Boys! Who cares if it doesn’t make a fucking shred of difference to the number of illegals. All those fucking liberal mayors shitting their pants and swearing they gonna defend their pet illegals, makes me LAFF! Like as if I would throw them out when they make so much great money for me by working for next to nothing. And what is the best way to keep them working for next to nothing? Make them scared! They’ll do anything for a buck and you know what, dear dowry, some got GREAT tits and asses!

    Yup! And managed to get at least SOME of that black guy’s terrorist buddies banned. No Syrians for sure. Miserable bastards, always moaning about being killed and raped and shit. And for the rest, they are gonna have to take a test when they apply to come in to our great country. A fifteen page test in English of course. The first question, and I wrote it myself, is “Why do you want to be a Jihadi?” and they have to answer Yes or Definitely. Then question two says, “How many wives do you have?” and I ban anyone with one or more. Then question three says “To what extent do you think Toad is the best president ever? A) Great b) Fantastically Great c) Fantastically wonderfully ecstatically FABULOUS and if they choose anything other than c they go straight to the last question, which is “Do you realize you have been refused admission into this great country? Yes or no.”

    My cleverness never ceases to amaze me and everybody else.

     

    Notes to wonderful marvelous fabulous self:

    • Get new wife. Soon. Or wives. I don’t see why a Pres shouldn’t have LOTS. Get law changed.
    • Find at least FIVE ways to fuck off the Liberals this week
    • Invent at least FIFTEEN truths a day (see 2)

     

     

  • Toad Moves In!

    “From now on,” Mr Toad said expansively, “this great ugly pile will be called Toad Hall. After me. Like all my huge massive best wonderful incredible fantastic best in the world businesses!” With a gesture he stopped the motorcade at the entrance of the historic mansion and clambered out of the limo to get a good view of the facade. “Those will have to go!” He gestured toward the portico, and the columns. “So darned old -fashioned! I can see we are gonna have to gut this place. Major refurb!”

    Tirana Deville Toad, his latest spouse and handmaiden dressed as Jackie Kennedy, stepped elegantly out of the vehicle to join her checkbook. (We cannot yet know whether this outfit shows prescience or simply wishful thinking.)  “I don’t know darrrling…” she said in her delightful Transylvanian accent, “we could just gold plate them, put some cherubs on top, and a big sign flashink, to say Toad Hall?”

    “Darling,” he said, “even though you are only a woman, that’s not a bad idea for once!”

    Arm-in arm the Toads sighed in amphibian harmony as they contemplated the joy of their future life. First man and First Lady! Never before had such an honour been vested in a Toad since the Republic was first founded. Oh there had been frogs, certainly! In fact a whole family of Bush Frogs had once reigned here, as had a Ray Gun, who turned out to be a damp if cuddly squib.

    “No one could have a greater wife than you, and no one could be a greater husband than me. And you know what, I will do my best to make you great again! If I get a few minutes I might even pop some sperm into you, you lucky thing. And make no mistake, they will be the greatest most fantastic sperms in the whole world. They will be GRRRREAT sperm. The best ever I can assure you. They will swim for America! There will be Michael Phlipps! They will be Markle Splash! Best quality American sperms! No-one makes sperms better than me, believe me!” Then, on second thoughts  he slapped her across the face. “if you’re lucky, immigrant bitch!” He hissed.

    And so began the Reign of Toads, or Rain of Toad, as it is sometimes called. And what was the first thing Toad did when he got to the Oval Office? After  sending the girls to the bedroom to pee on Obama’s bed. “Watch this!” He said, surrounded by the Swamp Creatures of his Cabinet. “You’ll love this,” he winked at his Secretary of State, Rexxon Mobil, “I mean no-one cares for sick poor people as much as I do. I am their best friend their greatest advocate. I even have some working for me at the lowest wages I can get away with! I love them like family! Gimme that.” He gestured toward an an official-looking document labelled “affordable care act” and it was placed before him. “Gimme that gold pen!” And with a huge, flowing, stroke of the pen, he drew a great big line though it.

    His adoring creatures roared with laughter. Heil Toad! They cried. “Toad for President!” His Deputy, Mick Penis, yelled. Then, remembering, “Oh yeh you are already!”

     

  • Mr TOAD gets INAUGURADED

    It was tomorrow. Or today if you are reading this on Friday. Or yesterday. Or forever.

    The whole nation held its breath and the world watched in terror. The Trumpettes raised their legs in a head-high salute as Mr Toad stepped up to take the Oath, flanked by Mole on one side and spouse Tirana Deville on the other. (Tirana incidentally was thrusting out her assets in a desperate attempt to get her beloved sugardaddy’s eye away from ogling the Trumpettes.) Before him, his army of 20,000 brownshirted Disposables adored every word. “I solelmly swear”, (sic), he orated, squinted myopically at the Teleprompt, “that I shall fatefully execute anyone who opposes me as President of the United States…” He paused, briefly using his Threat Look Number 4 directed at the Press, “and will to the breast of my ability perve, project and defer the Constitution of the United States, so help you God!”

    “Hurray hurray,” cried the Disposables, some fainting with utter delight as they envisaged the fulfilment of their greatest dream: to become Toad’s Apprentice and to loll in money all their lives. After all, hadn’t the Toad told them that he would fire all the Mexicans and Muslims and have them walled up, so they couldn’t EVER be his Apprentice? As well as blacks and gays, of course (though he did say he may let blacks marry gays if they were very very good). And hadn’t he said he would eat all the Greens and the entire climate, so that steak would be on every table and a seven litre Ford Mustang made in Detroit would be in every yard? Hadn’t he promised that they would all be forever healthy by destroying their need for healthcare? And hadn’t he promised to put every abortionate woman in prison at the mercy of horny Disposables – as would every woman and her cat be, of course. Except for Tirana, until he had finished with her.

    Harumphing importantly, Toad stepped to the vast array of microphones. The world held its breath.

    “I have promised to make Ameriga grape again,” he said, taking a huge gulp of Argentinian Merlot, “and grape it will be, especially for meeeeee! Oh, and them of course.” He gestured to his massive family who were standing adoringly behind him, holding British, Chinese and Israeli flags. The British one was defaced with the holy words BREXIT ROOLS in capital letters. The Chinese with the word DEFEATED and the Israeli one with SETTLEMENTS NOT SETTLEMENT.

    “So all of you are DYING to know what me and my Weasels are going to be doing!” He pointed to his Cabinet appointees who were standing in a long gurning line behind the First Family: Brexxon-Mobile in charge of destroying the environment, Steve Munchkin Hedge Fund promoter, in charge of destroying the economy; Mick Pompeii, in charge of eruptions and destroying all races but one by torturing them; Jessie James Sex Sessions, in charge of destroying the Constitution; Bob Lightsaber in charge of starting wars with China, Andy Puzzler in charge of destroying the unions, Tommy Priceless Health Monetiser, in charge of blackmailing the public into paying megabucks for healthcare; Pick Merry Climate Destruction Specialist, and Vladimir Putin amongst other Weasels and monsters.

    “And you will! But don’t hold your bereath! OR Mine! Because you know what?” He opened his arms in his famous ‘I love you’ gesture, “I don’t give a fuck! If you want to know what’s next, fuck you. You got Twitter? You check that. You check that every day. And if you don’t like it….” He raised one stubby finger into the air, “well you can SIT on it!” He turned to the lead Trumpette who stood adoringly before him with her left breast bared, “especially you, darling!” and he set off in his Toadmobile for the building he had been referring to as the Black House for eight years.

    Image: In the absence of Photoshop, I had to use a real photograph of the President-elect.

  • NHS Implosion and Obamacare Explosion. Take cover?

     

    I am certain that this Government is ALLOWING the NHS to implode in order to pursue their privatization agenda, so that they can ensure their funders, supporters and other fat cats receive vast profits from the selloff through huge insurance revenue, through privatization of NHS assets. Our assets.

    They are determined to implement the US model pre Obamacare. By which the poor have nothing but the most basic emergency care. By which everyone who wants good care has to pay big insurance premiums. By which huge profits accrue to the pharmaceutical companies and health care providers.

    And Education will be next.

     

    Here is a conversation I had recently with a dear FB friend, Jenny, after I posted this from my sister-in law, a psychologist and mother in the USA in Seattle USA. My brother, by the way, is a professor of Medicine there. So they care.

    The American House and Senate, largely along party lines, voted :

    1. To end coverage for preexisting conditions, veterans’ benefits, and aid to rural hospitals.
    2. To remove discrimination protection for women in healthcare.
    3. Against the provision allowing children to remain on their parent’s insurance till the age of 26.
    4. To cut off funding for the Child Health Insurance Program (CHIP).
    5. Against ACA contraceptive coverage and maternity care provision.
    6. To direct committees to send budget legislation to defund and repeal the Affordable Care Act.

    For those who get health insurance through work, no pre-existing conditions. Lifetime caps for coverage are back for everyone.

    Real and disastrous actions are being taken that will affect more than just the 20-30 million people who will lose their health care coverage and the 3 million people who will lose their jobs.

    Despite their assertions of this being an action to “repeal and replace,” no viable alternative plan has been proposed.

    As of this moment, no replacement exists.

     

    Jenny:

    They are going back to pre war existence. Everything that has been fought for by so many dedicated and compassionate people. Wiped out without any care.

    Having experienced our own medical care in the last year here in Britain, as a carer with a disabled partner, I would say they are probably following our lead actually.

    Me: That’s a sad conclusion Jenny. But surely the stressed, cash-strapped NHS is better than the nothing they will have there? My mom with Alzheimer’s in San Diego will be left having to pay huge bills for medication and care, which her children have to pay. HUGE bills. Also, emergency care here is still wonderful and no HUGE bills. We must protect and defend the NHS, especially from the Government!

    Jenny: I apologise , I obviously hadn’t explained myself properly, I am a Carer for someone with Chronic Heart, lung, and Kidney disease, a spine disorder, so he needs a wheel chair now he has diabetes too. As well as developing Dementia. He’s just recovering from having that Winter Virus, which made him so Ill he’s had another mini Stroke. I’ve dealt with the whole thing alone at home. The Surgeries head nurse came out to us and left him some antibiotics.

    Our Hospitals and Doctors are so overworked, so short staffed and dealing with a winter epidemic. Which many elderly will die from this year. After 28 years of being a Carer I have seen 3 Governments in parliament.

    I can say with absolute truth and thorough experience the only time our National Heath has worked as it should, was with the Labour Government. ….They cared.

    The Conservative government just close everything down, ..take away, ..dispose of and then expect our dedicated Doctors and Nurses to carry on making everything work as if everything is normal. So they leave.

    We are now in a crisis that is worse than I have ever known which is why I cope alone at home. Because he is safer here than in Hospital. Frank and I have a made a pact, No hospitals, no Nursing homes. Now all the cuts, all the shortages have caught up with us, we are reaping the benefits of our Government’s mistakes. And don’t forget they never stop reminding us that we have too many elderly people now. After this winter they’ll be a few less, that’s for sure. So I am really sorry for the Americans and their elderly. And your Mum Jon.

    But I can’t do anything about it except complain and write letters. As I do here, will anyone take any notice??…

    …………..NO!

     

    Well, it’s time we DID take notice. The collapse of Social Care, which impacts Jenny and thousands of other people, and the imminent collapse of the NHS cannot be tolerated. Imagine if we have a flu epidemic….already they are not accepting casualties at some hospitals.

    WHERE does the money come from? Stop Trident, HS2 and other vanity projects. Brexit will cost a fortune as it is. Increase higher level taxation to 50%, we need a much bigger contribution from the rich.

    WHAT can we do? The Labour Party has some ideas. We must precipitate an election somehow. We must persuade the Sinn Fein to take their place in parliament. The Scotsnats have a role to play. The dear old Libs are still alive (just) and there are by-elections brewing. May must not pass. She says “some” have a problem! Let that stupid statement be her political obituary.

  • Twas brillig! Once. By Jon Elkon and John Launer

    With apologies to Lewis Caroll

    Twas brillig and the slimy Gove

    Did gyre and gimbel in the wabe

    All mimsy were the pussygrabs

    and the Trump he shat in spades

     

    “Beware the Putingimp my son!

    The jaws that bite, the boobs that catch

    Beware the Faragebird

    And shun the leakiest Wikisnatch!”

     

    He took his climate change in hand

    Long time the Logical he sought

    So rested he by the Trump bumtree

    And stood in piles of shite.

     

    And as in uffish shite he stood

    The Unspeakable, with eyes of blame

    Came ripping up Obamacare

    And burbled words inane

     

    One, two! One, two! And through and through

    The Dumpster dick went snicker snack!

    He left it dead and with its head

    He went galumphing back.

     

    And hast thou slain the Democrats?

    Come to my arms, bring the sex toy!

    Oh frabjous day, Sieg Heil! Oy vey!

    He ranted to annoy!

     

    Twas brillig and the slimy Gove

    Did gyre and gimbel in the wabe

    All mimsy were the pussygrabs

    and the Trump he shat in spades

  • Saving Sylvie – Short story or Novel?

    What happens next? Any thoughts?

    Chapter 1

    Night of the Narcissist.

    “He adores you but frankly he’s a bit of a smug bastard” I said, looking her in her blueish eyes. I said bluish because there is a sort of greyness there. Almost an absence of eye, a space or depth like you sometimes get with the blind. But Sylvie is far from blind.

    You rightly suspect that I am in love with her and am trying to undermine her belief in every man she meets so that she will eventually realise that I am her true other half. Basically by elimination.

    Why don’t I just tell her so?

    “Well he has a right to be” She says, “He has his own company!”

    “Meaningless” I say contemptuously. “‘Management Consultancy’! That’s what people say when they’ve been made redundant from the civil service. Or social work.”

    She laughed. “Well his last job was in his da’s rubber firm!”

    “Rubber? What did they make? Condoms?”

    “Silly,” she said. Slightly annoyed. “No. Tyres. The company was bought by the Koreans. Not his fault. Besides he has a fabulous body!”

    “Ah,” I said, “of course. Gym bunny. Abs addict. Terror of the triceps”.

    Just then Chris returned from the loo. “Everyone alright?” He asked, and there was something so smug in his tone I desperately wanted lo launch my fork into his eye. “We having dessert are we?” He had no doubt whatsoever that Sylvie was perfectly safe with me and that was so insulting. Why would he think I was incapable of being his rival any way whatsoever?

    “Yes”, Sylvie said. “It’s a chocolate cake day for sure! Are ‘we’?” She had certainly inserted a single quote mark around the “we”. The gentle irony of that gave me a tiny thrill – she too had reacted to his smug comment.

    “It’s my sugar free day darling” he said. “you knew that” he pushed the menu aside like an insult.

    “I’m having profiteroles” I announced rebelliously.

    Sylvie caught my eye for a fraction of a second. A shared conspiratorial victory.

    The invisible spaces between us were rearranging.

    “Darling,” he said, leaning forward and engaging her eyes, his hand covering hers on the table, “are you sure? You remember your little resolution?”

    Involuntarily she snatched her hand from under his. “Oh my ‘little’ sugar resolution? No, I don’t remember that at all.” This time our exchange of glances was almost overt.

    “Damn!” He said. His pocket was chirping. Birdsong. “Sorry darling. Must get this.” Phone leapt into his hand, to his ear. “Yes I know, no, fine” he said to the mobile. Then, covering, “sorry darling. Client.” And strode toward the balcony, muttering into the instrument.

    “It’s his fucking ex- girlfriend”, Sylvie said, “she wont let him go”

    “He said client.”

    “Yes I know”, she said and sank into quiet glumness, disturbed only by the ordering of the deserts.

    The desserts arrived and still he hadn’t.

    “Let’s kill him”, she said.

    “Don’t be silly!” I laughed as I stabbed a profiterole with a savage fork.

    “That could be one of his balls” she mused.

    “And that ” I said as she sliced into the chocolate cake with knife and fork, “could be his ass!”

    We laughed.

    “He says he loves me,” she said. “I think he might.”

    “Oh wake up Sylvie. He’s a narcissist, He’s controlling you! He wants you to dance to his tune. Once you do, he’ll dump you!”

    Instantly I realised I had gone too far. The shadow that crossed her face said this: you do not trust my judgment. You underestimate me.

    “Sorry”, I said. “But it’s the truth!”

    Chris emerged from the balcony. “Ready darling? Got the bill? Don’t worry we’ll pick it up on the way out. Bye James, good to meet you.” A peremptory handshake and with every indication of petulance from both, they were gone. Leaving me staring at my last profiterole.

    “He dumped me!”. It was two months after that meeting at Les Escargots. I hadn’t seen her or heard from her, apart from the odd You Ok exchange of texts, since that evening. In the old days we were trapped to each-other on WhatsApp for hours in the evenings. She had shared almost everything with me, for some reason seemed to trust me since we had met as colleagues at KBH. But since that meeting with the Chris, nothing. Which was fine. We no longer worked together and to be frank I rather needed to get over my hurt. And let’s face it, jealousy.

    I have always been better at being a friend than a lover. I’ve always preferred food to sex, what the hell.

    Perhaps that’s why I am a virgin at twenty eight.

    She says I am probably gay. Well, if I am, I’d happily make an exception for her…

    It was 7pm when I had the call on my mobile. Her voice had slivers of anger and a cushion of shock.

    “Really,” I said, attempting to inject just a little surprise into my voice. My temptation to use ITYS (I Told You So) rejected. “So. Why?”

    “How come every time you’re not sure what to say next you start your next sentence with ‘so’?”

    “Everyone does that. So tell me why?” I pushed the Mac aside and tried not to look at my next move in my chess battle with the machine.

    “Because he’s a fucker!” she said. “Because he’s an asshole! Because he fucked his ex at my flat, while I was at the conference!”

    “Huh?” I was properly surprised. I knew he was repulsive – but that repulsive? “how did you find out?”

    “Uh – why wouldn’t I see a used condom in the bin? Under a scrunched copy of the Times? Which I thought, I told him to recycle his fucking Tory paper. So I took it out to put in the recycling. And there is this horrible pink rubber thing dripping cum underneath…”

    “Yuk.”

    “He said he wanted babies with me! God James, what if I’m pregnant?”

    “We’ll cross that bridge when. So what happened – did you confront him?”

    “He got home almost the same minute – there I am, Times in my hand, staring into the bin, there he is at the door, staring at me staring at the bin. Everything all right darling he asks me. No I say, point to the bin. He looks.”

    “Wow. Great scene.”

    “Then he says, I swear, he says, ‘yes, it’s a condom. Are you coming to the O2 with me tonight or not. It’s Comedy Central night.’”

    “What?! What did you do?”

    “I threw the bin at him!”

    “You didn’t…” feigned disbelief. This was exactly what I could imagine her doing.

    “Yes I did. Covered him in fag ash and tissues and dribbling cum. He was furious!”

    “Well done! And then?”

    “And then he told me I am a screaming hysterical bitch. He always wanks into a condom he said. Saves mess! And he dumped me…grabbed his stuff. Stormed out like it’s all my fault! Oh James, why do I feel so…fucking…miserable?”

    “Do you want me to come over?” hopefully. The White Knight with chocolates and kisses….

    “No I fucking don’t – oh sorry James I don’t want it to sound like that. I just need to be by myself. Think it over. I mean, why does he have to wank when he has me? I don’t believe him! She was here. I know she was.”

    “Oh boy.”

    “Oh boy…” she’s sobbing and it’s horrible. Then “I mean, maybe just maybe it’s true? He’s OCD enough to use a condom for a wank.”

    “How can you believe him?” I ask, exasperated. “I told you he’s a narcissist. He can never admit if he’s done wrong. He will always blame the other person.”

    “I’m going out,” she said. “I need to walk.”

    And that was the last time I spoke to her, three days now. No answers to texts. Nothing on Whatsapp. Her Facebook, Snapchat, nothing’s happened.

    She has disappeared.

    What should I do?

  • Meeting the Minders – FBI transcript 19/1/17

     

    We can only imagine what was in that Trump in Moscow story…So I have…

    ”But really, I never! “, he whined, “I never did none of that! That Buzzman is telling huge porkies!”

    “We believe you Babyman! Now don’t cry, just follow orders as you always do.”

    “I am SICK of people being mean to me! Don’t they know I just want to be liked?”

    “Yes. Of course we know, and that’s why you did that to Anastasia!”

    “I didn’t! I didn’t!”

    “Well she says you did, Babyman. She still treasures the champagne bottle …” Laughter.

    “There wasn’t a diddlio. I just wanted to make her happy.”

    “And of course Valentina remembers so well how you made her happy!”

    “I didn’t!” Then, on second thoughts, “Wait a minute. She was happy?”

    “Sure! When she got out of hospital the roubles sure cheered her up!”

    “Ha! I knew they would. Nothing roubles can’t fix!”

    “Elena enjoyed the evening too…”

    “But I didn’t! Hold on, was she the redhead?”

    “No, that was Irina! She was happy. Especially with the Ferrari…”

    “She earned it.”

    “She sure did…”

    “What about the others? Not that there were any of course.”

    “Well, Klara did attempt a complaint…but she’s asleep now.”

    “With the fishes, right?”

    “Sure!”

    “Gee, you guys sure look after me.”

    “You look after us, Babyman, we will sure look after you.”

    “I think I’ve just pooed myself.”

    “So you have, Babyman, so you have. But don’t you worry. Nobody will notice.”

    “I love you Vladimir.”

    “I love you back, Babyman.”

     

    Image: http://www.liberalamerica.org/2016/02/29/time-donald-trump-got-called-anchor-baby-cuz-immigrant-mom/

    https://www.documentcloud.org/documents/3259984-Trump-Intelligence-Allegations.html

    https://www.buzzfeed.com/kenbensinger/these-reports-allege-trump-has-deep-ties-to-russia?utm_term=.ru9x1wVKQK#.xkmWoMqdBd

     

  • 2017 blues? Cheer up.

    2017 blues? Cheer up.

    Ok, the Trumpets play,

    The brexit signs gleam and the prophets of doom

    Seem serene. The gloom

    Descends as the snow gathers. Friends!

    Would you rather bore

    The world with becoming

    Furled in the mire of despairing?

    Or go down the road singing?

    No! I say, we who are about to die,

    Play! In the gathering dark

    Laugh! Ignite the spark of comedy!

    Satire speaks from the heart. Depart!

    Ye portents of doom. Fart! In the faces of stupidity 

    Blow their abandoned logic to eternity!

    Sing! This is Saturnalia, this is the Feast of Fools,

    For us, this is defeat.

     

    ….and when they have destroyed us all, our treat

    As the last light begins to go

    remains “I Told You So.”

     

  • Cure for the Common Cold? – Keep it secret!

    Do you have a cold? Yesterday I started one of those blasted demonic possession infections, you know, when all the liquid in the body attempts to exit through the nose, and the throat feels as if sandpapered inside, and the eyes blaze in red haze and the whole world becomes  ugly and threatening, freezing and wet.

    It came on quite quickly. The day before someone said, “Sniffing are we?” and I replied, as I always do, “No no, just clearing!” Other people usually notice I have a cold long before I do. It most often happens on the phone when I get the question, “Do you have a cold?” and blow me down (pun execrable) the next day there I am wrapped up in misery.

    Imagine if there was a cheap, easy, convenient way to cure a cold.

    Are you imagining that?

    Imagine how quickly the whole of Big Pharm would immediately put billions into discrediting it, claiming it causes cancer, buying up the fields where its cultivated, lobbying the government to declare it a Class A illegal substance. Let’s face it, they’ll be miffed.

    Which is why I need you to keep this very secret, hear?

    So here’s the story: Years ago I went to Algeria with a dear friend and colleague, to attend his brother’s wedding. And on my second day, there it was, my old friend the Streamer. I was streaming from every orifice. Well, not every. Coughing, leaking, leaving trails of dank tissues behind me wherever I went.

    And his mum, seeing this, said in Algerian “Don’t panic you leaking man. I will fix” and brought me a steaming infusion in a pot and a towel to wrap around, so that I could inhale the fumes. So I did, for around ten minutes, then another ten minutes, and then another later.

    The next day there were no symptoms of the virus.

    I remembered this on Monday, when the symptoms came on and in my misery I wracked my brains for who, where and above all, what was in that infusion. As I had done before, I asked my friend yet again what this miraculous water had contained and all he could give me was the Arabic word, which was no help. It was something like “Tawbeel” or Tawabil – then I thought of Google Translate.

    After a few tweaks I had the answer and within minutes had driven to Sainsbury’s trailing wet toilet paper after me like a streamer.

    It cost a pound!

    Oregano. A small bottle of the dried stuff from the herbs and spices section.

    I rushed it home. Poured a few tablespoons of the green stuff into a pot of a few inches of water, boiled, placed a towel around my head and sniffed deeply several times.

    Am I cured? Well, that was yesterday. Today I am hardly sniffing at all. There is no sore throat. My eyes are normal. Look, I doubt very much that the cold s gone – but it sure as hell feels like it. Watch this space! Or better still, please try this yourself and let me know how you get on?

    Do a little googling into “Oregano for colds”  – for example

    http://www.livestrong.com/article/495376-oil-of-oregano-vs-colds-flu/

  • Apocalypse Then!

    Image: The Guardian 29/12

    The Four Horsemen are gathering…and one man tries to do something about it!

    Strange thing, this bonfire of the personalities. Whatttt! George Michael and now Carrie Fisher! Followed the next day by her mom Debbie Reynolds…One after the bloody other! The names paraded through Gregor’s mind as he strode up Chiswick High Street. And David Bowie, of course. That one felt like a personal bereavement. Muhammad Ali! A punch to the midriff. Leonard Cohen, growling his way off into the sunset. Prince! Fidel Castro…Gene Wilder…Zsa Zsa Gabor, just the other day Darrrrling…what’s so special about 2016? Or is it so special? Must Google celebrity deaths 2016. And go back in time. Is there a website which compares this year with previous years? Or is it that this year was the year all one’s icons have reached the right age to die? But poor George Michael was only 53.

    But it was Jo Cox’ death that had hurt him the most. Bastards.

    He turned left at Acton Lane and followed the curve of the road to Chiswick Park station. His mobile leapt into his hand. “Hi Siri” he said, “Celebrity deaths 2016”  “Checking” said Siri, then almost immediately “I found this for Celebrity deaths 2016”. Lists, lists.

    Victoria Wood.  Her self-parodying heartfelt comic voice now only digital. All these people. Now digital.

    Oh no, Harper Lee. Killed long after her bird mocked the prejudices and bigotry of the American South.

    The ugly grey stained concrete of the Deco station inserted itself into his life like an unwelcome alien space ship. He pocketed the phone, tapped through the barrier, rushed up the stairs and boarded a waiting District Line train. He sat down, melted into his mobile screen.

    Alan Rickman. A professional baddie.

    John Glenn. Saw the Earth as it should be. Beautiful.

    The tube carriage mounted into the sky.

    Terry Wogan…that’s seriously unfair. Now there is no ironic excuse to watch Eurovision.

    Margaret Forster…gave me my first enthusiastic review back in the eighties.

    “The next station is Earl’s Court” the recorded announcement lied.

    And what about Ronnie Corbett! and Umberto Eco even – too many names. So many and each one what Gregor would call a Good One. Not always good through their lives, true, but each with a strong streak of good running right through. Like a beam of love he would have said, had he been a soppy sort.

    With a sigh he looked up. Everything had gone utterly silent. No rattle, no hum, no roar.

    This is Wrong, he thought. With a capital W.

    He stared through the window at the utter black of vacuum. And gradually he became aware of the passengers seated opposite. A yawning, frowning, huddling gurn of faces in a row like balls set up for a purpose yet to be invented, probably one of those perpetual motion machines – if you tapped one it would tap the next and so on all up the line and then back again. And each time each head would say Hello Mate!

    I must be dead I suppose, he thought. Either that or I’ve gone suddenly deaf. And we’re passing through the blackest of black tunnels.

    He realised that somehow the number of people in the carriage was increasing exponentially. Even the aisle began to fill up with hollow ones, frozen to their phones.

    No, that’s it. I’m dead. I’ll never fulfil my mission now, he thought. Westminster is so far away. He clutched his briefcase tightly to his lap.

    Meanwhile the recorded voice went on lying, station by station, as if there was such a thing as a destination, until, unaccountably, it stopped.

    The doors slid open and there was nothing but light outside. Passengers stared, stunned, confused. “What on earth is happening?” He asked no-one.

    A blowsy woman in green said “I have no idea! This bloody District line just gets worse! I have to get to Debenhams by 4!”

    A youth in a hoodie laughed. “You’ll be lucky!” he said.

    The announcement nevertheless took them quite by surprise. “Ladies and gentlemen and others. You have arrived at your destination. This train terminates here. Kindly abandon this train. I repeat, kindly abandon the train. You must leave all your baggage inside. I repeat, all your baggage.”

    They stood, milled about, then like well-conditioned London commuters, they followed orders.

    “I am the Conductor,” a portly man in a London Underground uniform using a loudhailer, introduced himself to the passengers as they stood in a confused clump along the platform. “I will be leading you to your destination.” A clamour of voices, questions, demands, incomprehension was met by bland reassurance. “I can understand your confusion of course! I will explain. There is nothing to worry about.” He walked to about the middle of the platform and continued.

    “I knew it! The Seventh Day Adventist blurted. “It’s the Day of Judgement! We are the Blessed!”

    “You’re nuts” a hipster giggled. “Religious nut are you?”

    “You may laugh,” the nut said. “I realised yesterday when I was looking at the list of all the great and the good that died this year. It’s the Apocalypse! All of them were Christians who had seen the light! God hath gathered them up unto him.”

    “Uh, no, that’s not true…” the Conductor muttered.

    “Yes it is! The Four Horsemen are gathered. The Trump, the ISIS, the whatsname, Russian President, and Mick Jagger I should think…we predicted it! It’s the End of the World and we have been saved!”

    “Not quite,” the Conductor said. “If only we were that well organised! We have been making rather a lot of cock ups recently. Actually, there are only two thousand three hundred places and we are oversubscribed. And no, we don’t only take Christians. And obviously we have made a mistake with you, young lady. In fact there are far too many of you here.  Some will have to be injured.”

    What! A furious babble of protest erupted. What do you mean injured? This line gets worse!

    “On behalf of the Underground my sincere apologies ladies gentlemen. I will need to divide you into In and Out, Injured and dead. Right! Any volunteers?”

    “I have no intention of being either!” The fat lady spouted. “My daughter is waiting for me in the tea shop at Debenhams and believe me, you wouldn’t want to keep her waiting!”

    “Really madam? And who else has an urgent appointment?”

    “Well me ” Gregor said. “Me.”

    “Really? And what was your appointment if I may ask?”

    “Well,” Gregor said modestly, “apparently I was supposed to save the world.”

    “Really?” The Conductor chortled disbelievingly. Other passengers tittered.

    “Oh yes!” Gregor said. ”You see, I am a Special Advisor to Theresa May, our Prime Minister.”

    “Show off!” The youth said contemptuously.

    “Oh yes,” said the Conductor, “it is perfectly possible. So why was your presence at the meeting so important? Prime Ministers have several Special Advisors. Paid lots of money apparently” He laughed.

    “It was a very special meeting,” Gregor said. ”A very secret meeting.”

    “Ah.” said the Conductor. “Well, we have no secrets here,” he said. “Why don’t you tell us all about it? Well, everybody we’re about to hear a story! So let’s all sit down. Do you want to hear a story?” he asked.

    “Yes yes” the other passengers chorused, and like obedient children, mouths agape, they sat on the dusty platform.

    So Gregor told them all about it. What the hell, now he was dead nothing mattered. He told them how he was supposed to meet with the PM and travel with her to a top secret destination in the countryside where a top secret meeting had been set up. So top secret that only a few people had the slightest idea as to where it would take place and who would attend.

    “But I know who was to attend,” he said.

    “Who, who?” they asked

    “Well, we have had all the great leaders and leaders-to be smuggled into the country in disguise. There’s Vladimir Putin. For example.”

    “Who?” the hoodie boy asked.

    “And Donald Trump of course.”

    “What!” the Conductor gasped.

    “And the deputy leader of ISIS, Abu Muslim al-Turkmani”

    “Not to mention some of the leaders of the right wing in Europe, like Le Pen, Wilders, Hofer, Grillo…”

    “Is this a stupid question,” an elderly gentleman in a striped suit asked, “but – well, why?”

    “Why? Why?” many others clamoured.

    “Yes, the Conductor asked, genuinely bemused. “Why?”

    “Well first I need to explain that this is by no means their first meeting. No. Every couple of years or so the leaders of the world get together in secret to make plans for the next year, work out who will win which wars, organise the distribution of wealth into their bank accounts, and so on.”

    “What!” The old man said.

    “They’ve been meeting secretly since Kruschev first set them up.” he said.

    “I knew that,” the obligatory Rasta smiled. “Obvious!”

    “Third time for Trump of course. Obama refused to join.”

    “Who would have guessed” the Conductor said with a smile.

    “So this time I decided to blow them up.”

    There was silence in that huge place. No breath was breathed.

    Until, eventually: “Blow them up?” the Conductor asked. Aghast.

    “Obviously. I have been an organiser of these meetings for years. But this year the bonfire of the celebrities finally pissed me off. I advised against it! But they never listen to my advice. They just made this decision to delete all people who could possibly suspect what they are up to. All the Good Ones. All the Smart Ones”

    “Tell me something, “the Conductor asked. “What is in your briefcase?”

    “Why,” Gregor answered. “The bomb of course!” He opened the flap and stared inside. It was completely empty.

    “The bomb went off,” the Conductor said sadly. “At Chiswick Park Station. So now we know why.”

    “I guess we do,” Gregor said sadly.

     

    Is there a Great Plan?

    Or is this just cock up

    Of God or Man? 

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