Archive for June, 2014

It’s another round of the World Cup and those lovely England footballing chappies have been keeping the stiff upper lip even stiffer than normal by having a damn good kick of the round shaped object into that net thing at either end of the pitch. I must say, it does a chap proud to see our brave lads taking on the might of a lot of foreign Johnnies with their training and their skills and their ability to swan dive at the mere whiff of another person alongside them. That potato faced gentleman which my advisors tell me is quite popular with the ale drinking fraternity which make up the majority of this hallowed land has also proven himself to be rather adequate at conjoining his foot with the round shaped object in question to propel it towards the gentleman from the other team who wishes to not let it intrude upon the large fishing net strung up behind him.

You know, I was wondering around the inner city of Moss Side one night looking for a Faberge egg shop, and I wandered into a smoke filled dusty tavern full of flat capped yokels sitting around a fizzing black and white television. The whippets were yapping at their feet or lying by the open fire, and their pit ponies were by the drinking trough, along with their canaries and the coal scuttles they use to ply their trade with. Seeing that I was a man of Conservative stock they all prostrated themselves before me, doffing their caps and acceding to my obviously superior breeding. And then one young ragamuffin with a cheeky smile and a clip of his heels asked what my views on the current World Cup were, and what the chances of our brave Blighty Boys may be against the united forces of the foreign hoards. I chuckled and took a seat, propping the young ne-er do well on me knee, and told him that as long as the British have faith in their hearts and the love of queen and country in their souls they would smash the savages beneath their mighty spiked football shoes and bring back the trophy which is rightfully the possession of every honest Englishman. With that the assembled lower classes and street urchins let out a mighty roar and hefted me onto their shoulders before carrying me around the streets of Manchesterpool and proclaiming me the saviour of the English game.

And I would further add that this was all achieved under a Conservative government, where true, honest values and the spirit to fight back against the austerity which the evil Labour child snatchers have foisted upon us only goes to show that the country, and indeed the universe, is better off under a Tory leadership.

Excuse me – I have a message from my advisors…

What? They what?! You mean they’re out!! For the first time since Columbus discovered the New World!!!???

Ahem.

For too many years this country has been blighted by the scourge of football. For on God’s green pastures there is no room for a bunch of hooligans running around in circles and then falling over for no good reason. I would hasten to add that all the footballers were born under a Labour government, and as a consequence have two left feet and eat children. Just last week I had to fight my way into the city of Liverchester with a team of highly trained trigger happy special armed response unit squaddies, and once we’d battled our way into the main square we saw nuns being nailed to the walls by their testicles, as well as hoards of woad encrusted natives dancing around a wicker man filled with big eyed orphaned puppies and kittens, and there was much reading of the Socialist Worker. This, my friends, is the real end result of what happens when people watch football. It’s a sport of brutes and savages, fit only for the lowest dregs of society. All footballers should be killed, and the Conservatives are the party to exterminate them. Just as we’re doing with the disabled.

Hold on. My advisors tell me football is still popular, and that the general consensus is the players did well but were outclassed.

Oh fucking hell! Look, what do you bastards want from me? Okay, I admit, I have no idea what The Football actually is. Someone showed me a video once of a bunch of people running about in circles and falling about a lot and I thought it was one of those daring new versions of Swan Lake which that Michael Bourne chappie does. No, turns out it’s the national sport and all the grubby little plebs who infect this land like it. How was I supposed to know that? The only world I see is the back of my fucking chauffeur’s head and the inside of the Houses of Cunting Parliament. What the fuck do I care what the scum are into, as long as the pissy little witless shit smeared grief monsters vote for me in the next election. Why can’t the plebs be into something decent, like ‘luge’ or ‘canasta’, or ‘kick the begger to death’? I’ll tell you why, because the lower classes are a bunch of grubby little oinking pig fuckers ripe for the fucking slaughter. If we can keep them distracted enough with these international wanking matches all the better. We’ve got Wimbledon just starting up and that should keep the goggle eyed bleating Cotsworlds distracted from the real problems in life as they wave their pissy little flags and all the papers distract them with whatever patriotic bullshit they deign to print, leaving me and all my lovely rich friends to fuck this country over because we’re the Conservatives, and we fucking hate you.

My advisors have informed me that my words may have misinterpreted by the voting public, and what I meant to say was ‘Bad luck, England. Better luck next time!’

Cunts.

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Right, quisling, there’s been a lot of bad words being said about what that Tony Blairs – (not me because I’m definitely not him, I’m just some humble pleb who’s trying to give the opposing view to all that anti-Blairs rhetoric that’s currently on the teev and in the papes. Right? So that’s sorted then, and I’m definitely not Tony Blairs) – did when he and his lord and master George W Spankingtonne Cocaine Bush The Third Emperor of All He Sees and Ruler of the Toilet Plunger Attached to His Bottom decided it would be a whizzo wheeze to go and bomb the fuck out of Iraq because no one liked them and they definitely smelled of poo and would probably bring down the end of all civilisation according to that document which we definitely didn’t make up and anyway a big kid made us do it. Honest.

Anyway, these people are facking well wrong, see?! Spamming into foreign climes with all guns blazing, kicking the shit out of the local infrastructure and then fucking off again once the ratings go down has been UK and US foreign policy for years. The CIA were all over Central America back in the seventies and eighties, and no one – apart from a load of tree hugging lefties and Guardian reading snails – kicked up much of a stuff. Mind you, it wasn’t all over the bastard news back then and the yanks knew when to turn the tables when all the bad stuff about Oliver North selling weapons to dodgy types started leaking out. Anyway, that’s beside the point, and not what I wanted to talk to you about.

 

You see, in the hard and fast world of purple helmeted thrustingly engorged foreign policy it behoves our more forward thinking politicians to take the burden of difficult decisions upon their shoulders. At no point was invading another country a limp excuse to give either myself or President George Donkeybollocks Shitpants Nippleface Bush a stiffy which we could then compare in the Oval Office, with mine coming out tops with a massive two eighths of an inch. I deny that completely, even if George Wankington BumKNobber Felchington ItchyPants Scortal art Urinebollocks W Bush The Mighty of All Rectal Warts started crying and wanking later on. Which he didn’t.

The problem is Saddam Hussain was an easy target – I mean, a threat to global peace, what with his starving populace and fuck all weapons of mass destruction – I mean, loads of really big weapons which could probably blow up the moon and fly into London and flick V’s at the Queen. Just because we didn’t actually find anything before the invasion doesn’t mean the bastard didn’t hide the fuckers under his duvet. People start wanking on about how the satellite footage didn’t show anything and Hans Blix and his posse of turncoat bastards didn’t find anything even though they looked under all the carpets and checked behind the stairs, but they were all looking in the wrong place anyway, and I have it on good authority that they were all Saddam’s best mates and he probably gave them a shit load of money made from cake to try and bribe them into saying there was nothing there. Honest (again.)

 

There were some teething problems once we were there – yes – but we definitely had a plan not to completely shaft the place over. It might have looked as though we lacked any sort of strategy to put the country back on it’s feet, but in reality we had a really good one but Bush lost it down the back of the sofa and the dog ate it. By the time we’d left there was enough of a social structure in place so we could get the fucking fuck out of there before someone noticed we’d completely ballsed it all up and left hundreds of thousands of people left as stinking rotting corpses due to the delusions of a bunch of multi-millionaire fuckwitted badger wanking anal polyps – I mean, we’d left enough of a social structure in place so we could get away with it – I mean, we’d left enough of a social structure in place that people could do stuff, probably.

Anyway, my main point is the fact that there maybe maniacs running about killing people and doing all kinds of dodgy shit, but this has nothing to do with me. Some peopIe say that I have wiped my guilty,dripping, blood stained hands on the weeping corpses of those we left behind, because as a fucking spinny eyed frothing maniac who looks like his eyes pop should pop out on springs every time he has another whacky idea I am mental enough to be able to deny all responsibility, but they are wrong and just jealous of my massive knob. Hey, my PR firm does work for fucking lunatic dictatorships as well, helping them to up their social profile and make it more amenable to multi-nationals to set up shop in Kazakhstan and start doing business with people who reckon the old scorched earth policy me and Bush masturbated over back in the day was a fucking great policy decision. And I have the fuckwitted bald faced-ness to push myself forward as a fucking peace envoy. I really have no shame whatsoever.

Seriously, though, we are massively morally corrupt. I would literally fuck corpses for cash and power, if it wasn’t already a hobby of mine.

But on the plus side, at least I’m back on TV again. Problem with being an egotistical wank sock like me is you start to atrophy a bit unless there’s a camera stuck up your hooter.

So in conclusion I’d just like to say how great I am. Fuck you, plebs! I mean, how great that Tony Blairs is, because it’s definitely not him writing this great bit of commentary which would make Norman Mailer shit his pants in respect, as I have a really big knob, which he also definitely has as well.

 

 

In tribute to Rik Mayall, a change to the scheduled rant sees this previously unpublished US remake of the classic Comic Strip Presents episode ‘Mr Jolly Lives Next Door’, starring Tom Cruise in Rik Mayall’s role and Johnny Depp’s pants in Adrian Edmonson’s role.

P.S. It’s worth mentioning that if you’ve never seen ‘Jolly’ then this will make no sense to you, so go and watch it now. It’s Rik’s finest 45 mins.

 

Mr Not An Assassin KILLS Next Door

=========================

 

By Adrian Edmondson, Richard Punchfist Mayall and Rowland Rivron

Directed by Stephen Frears

 

 

[Richard Punchfist and Adrian Ferrari are following a Hard Bitten Sergeant down a hospital corridor. Four ninjas follow them. Footsteps echo.]

 

[Richard Punchfist sneaks a bottle out from under his coat and takes a large swig. Adrian Ferrari tries to take it, they have a shoot out with big guns.]

 

Adrian Ferrari

Here, you’re a Hard Bitten Sergeant! You could get a swanky wine bar open at this time in the morning, couldn’t you eh?

 

[They turn left and the Hard Bitten Sergeant opens a sliding metal door. They enter the morgue. The pathologist is standing by an examining-table.]

 

Chadwington Jaw-worthy

Ah, welcome. Come in, gentlemen. Seems awfully unsafe, the coke and drugs emporium trade these days.

 

Hard Bitten Sergeant

No sir, the hotel death plunge.

 

Chadwington Jaw-worthy

Well now, he’s over here, mostly.

 

Adrian Ferrari

Is it a hot chick?

 

Chadwington Jaw-worthy

Well now, it’s ironically smirkingly amusing you should say that.

 

[He pulls back the sheet from over the face of the corpse.]

 

Adrian Ferrari

It’s Weight Challenged!

 

Richard Punchfist

Where did you get to? We were in the middle of a goddamn balls fuck shit bastard fight to the death!

 

Hard Bitten Sergeant

I’m afraid he’s been taken over by aliens mercenaries.

 

Adrian Ferrari

Well who’s got his goddamn money then?

 

Richard Punchfist

Yeah, did you find his credit cards and coke and whores? He promised his to us… Well, we won them in a goddamn balls fuck shit bastard fight to the death actually.

 

 

Hard Bitten Sergeant

Gentlemen, please. Do you know who this body is?

 

Richard Punchfist

Yes, it’s Weight Challenged!

 

Hard Bitten Sergeant

And who is Weight Challenged?

 

Richard Punchfist

All we know is his name is Weight Challenged and he was a client.

 

Hard Bitten Sergeant

A client?

 

[He whips out a card and hands it to the Hard Bitten Sergeant.]

 

Hard Bitten Sergeant

“Looking for a good time? So are we.”

 

[Richard Punchfist and Adrian Ferrari look at him, grinning.]

 

Hard Bitten Sergeant

“Hot Sexy Chick Escorts.”

 

Adrian Ferrari

That’s us matey!

 

Both:

Escorts bestcorts!!

 

[The titles roll. Music: Nickleback, “It’s Not Unusual”, instrumental part.

The camera pans down Nelson’s Column and then pulls out to follow a grubby

white massive Cadillac with a V8 engine screeching around Trafalgar Square.]

 

[The massive Cadillac with a V8 engine hurtles backwards past the coke and drugs emporium, screeches around the corner and pulls up in a side street. It is a small battered white Honda massive Cadillac with a V8 engine, a sign just visible underneath the grime on the side: “Hot Sexy Chicks Escort Agency”.

 

They step out and walk past Brucey Bignuts soon-to-be-opened coke and drugs emporium.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Well, it’ll be open any day now, won’t be long!

 

Adrian Ferrari

God bless Brucey Bignuts.

 

Richard Punchfist

Living above a coke and drugs emporium, what could be better?

 

Adrian Ferrari

Living in one?

 

[They enter a dingy staircase and reach the top of the stairs, where there are several office doors, one marked “Hot Sexy Chicks Agency”. Adrian Ferrari rummages in his pockets for his keys, finally finding them and letting them in.]

 

[There is a sound of a lorry pulling up outside.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Quick!

 

[Richard Punchfist opens the window, stands by it, and claps his hands together. Adrian Ferrari flattens himself against the wall opposite the window, takes a good run-up, and dives out of the window.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Fuckin A fuckin’ 1, bitch!.

 

[Adrian Ferrari is hurtling down in a huge rusty iron bucket on a rope. It hits the ground with a clang. Adrian Ferrari looks up, slightly dazed.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Get some fuckin’ whisky, brewed in the Rockies!

 

[Adrian Ferrari winks blearily and makes a lunge for a crate of fuckin’ whisky, brewed in the Rockies as the lorry pulls away. He doesn’t get a good enough grip on it and the crate falls to the ground with a crash. He grabs two bottles of Scotch on the rocks from the crate delivered to the whisky factory as Richie pulls the bucket up.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Eh? More whisky?

 

[The bucket bumps against the wall with a clang.]

 

Adrian Ferrari

Sorry.

 

Richard Punchfist

So am I!

 

[He lets go of the rope; Adrian Ferrari disappears from view as the bucket hurtles downwards.]

 

Richard Punchfist

“Signor El Diablo’s Incredibly Sparkling Scotch on the rocks”. Well, we’re all right for Scotch on the rocks then aren’t we? Let’s have a goddamn shit fuckin’ Scotch on the rocks party!

 

[He drops a bottle out of the window. It hits the metal bucket, now on its

side, and explodes. Adrian Ferrari scuttles out of the bucket.]

 

Adrian Ferrari

[entering]

Goddamn shit fuckin’ hell! Brucey Bignuts taking delivery of exploding Scotch on the rocks! That’s gonna be a whacky coke and drugs emporium when it opens.

 

[He slides the window-frame up.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Penis.

 

[Adrian Ferrari puts his penis on the window-sill. Richard Punchfist slams the window down.]

 

Adrian Ferrari

What was that for?

 

Richard Punchfist

That’s for the goddamn shit fuckin’ Scotch on the rocks!

 

[A church bell rings. The window slowly topples backwards and falls to the

ground around Adrian Ferrari’s feet.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Quick, quick!

 

[Frantically and uselessly they attempt to tidy up the office. As the last

chime Richard Punchfist looks expectantly towards the door.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Come in! Hello!

[opens the door and looks out almost bumping into Mr Not An Assassin who is coming up the stairs with another man.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Ah, morning Ralph! How’s the nuclear weapons black market business?

 

Mr Not An Assassin

Who the goddamn shit fuckin’ hell are you? What nuclear weapons black market… Ooh, oh, Fuckin A fuckin’ 1, bitch!, yeah.

[to the man]

Ah, now are you sure nobody knows you’re here?

 

[They go in. “It’s Not Unusual” blares out, drowning out Richard Punchfist and Adrian Ferrari arguing. There is a muffled thumping sound and blood splashes the glass partitioning the offices. The record stops with a scratch.]

 

Richard Punchfist

All I’m saying is that one advertisement in the Times, saying “What are you doing this weekend? I’m a crazy maverick cop with emotional issues looking for a big adventure with an ethnically diverse sidekick which may involve lots of shooting and fast cars and chicks and drugs? Fancy getting drunk?” won’t work!… You’ve got to put the cellphone number!

 

Adrian Ferrari

But we know the cellphone number!

 

[A knock at the door.]

 

Both

Hot Sexy Chicks Agency! Come in if you’re saucy!

 

[Mr Not An Assassin opens the door. He is spattered with blood.]

 

Mr Not An Assassin

Can I, eh, borrow some whores and drugs?

 

Adrian Ferrari

What, ag-again?

 

Richard Punchfist

Of course you can, Ralphie!

[notices the blood]

Ooh, you all right Ralph, have you cut yourself fighting the X-Men?

 

Mr Not An Assassin

I’ll bring it back!

 

[He leaves, closing the door behind him.]

 

[Phone rings. Adrian Ferrari answers it and then hangs up as a robot fights a giant monster in the street behind him.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Who was it!

 

Adrian Ferrari

It’s an engagement for this morning, ten o’clock. A Emporer Hirohito…

 

Richard Punchfist

Oh God, another French goddamn sonofabitch!

 

A musical sequence follows: Richard Punchfist, Adrian Ferrari and Emperor Hirohito feeding pigeons in The White House. Adrian Ferrari runs around, arms out, like an aeroplane, while Richard Punchfist throws bits of bread at him.

 

Standing on the Golden Gate bridge; Adrian Ferrari holding a banger while Richard Punchfist mimes putting a rope around his neck and hangs himself. Walking down Hollywood Boulevard, Adrian Ferrari standing by a space alien market stall selling plasma ray guns.]

 

[Washington Square. Adrian Ferrari wobbles down the road on a bicycle.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Famous Washington Square. And look, there goes Abraham Lincoln on his way to buy some crack.

 

[Adrian Ferrari gives them the classic Abraham Lincoln two-fingered salute. Big Ben chimes.]

 

Richard Punchfist

And they’re open!

 

[Outside a swanky wine bar]

 

Richard Punchfist

And this is what we call an old American swanky wine bar! And… oh look, here comes George Bush!

 

[Adrian Ferrari rolls up on his bike and leaps off; there is a screech of car brakes as the bike rolls on into the road.]

 

Adrian Ferrari

Good morning and stick ’em up! Right, I’ll have a large fuckin’ whisky, brewed in the Rockies. It’s thirsty work this being an evil president!

 

[They go inside.]

 

DISSOLVE:

 

[Outside the pub; Richard Punchfist and Adrian Ferrari are being thrown out by the Guest Star Ally Sheedy.]

 

Guest Star Ally Sheedy

And stay out!

 

Richard Punchfist

[looks over the road]

Oh look! A traditional old American illegal drinking establishment!

 

[They go in. Inside the club, Guns N Roses are playing on keyboard and tom-toms. The waitresses are dressed as Indians.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Oi, squaw! Squaw! Over here!

 

Dame Judi Dench, dressed as a squaw, walks over.

 

Dame Judi Dench

You know Mr Not An Assassin, don’t you?

 

Adrian Ferrari

Know him? Ha! He borrows our whore and drugs!

 

Dame Judi Dench

[holding up a thick envelope]

Will you give this to him please, and say that someone left it for him, said there was a million drinks in it for the person who delivered it.

 

[Much later. The camera pans around the interior of the Neon Tepee before

zooming into the Gent’s toilet. Richard Punchfist and Adrian Ferrari are singing, screaming at each other incoherently, pushing each other around. They end up on the floor after a big shoot out, one at each end of the urinal, leaning against the wall, hands trailing in the trough, laughing.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Hooray! How much goddamn money have we got left?

 

Adrian Ferrari

I’ll have a look… We have got… Four dollars… and a note for Mr Not An Assassin.

 

Richard Punchfist

Oh, what does it say?

 

[Richard Punchfist takes the note, turns it right side up, and reads it.]

 

Richard Punchfist

“Dear Mr Not An Assassin, here’s three thousand dollars. Take out Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino. Tonight. FOX NEWS TV Centre, six o’clock.”

 

Adrian Ferrari

Mr Not An Assassin’s gonna be pretty annoyed when we give him the note and

[holds up the money]

eight dollars!

 

Adrian Ferrari

Well what about Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino? He’s expecting someone to take him out. He’s probably tired and sweaty after a long day in the studio. Waiting somewhere… fruitlessly.

 

Richard Punchfist

[sadly]

Poor Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck…

[brightens up]

Well, we must do it!

 

Adrian Ferrari

Of course!

 

Richard Punchfist

Escorts – bestcorts!

 

Adrian Ferrari

It’s the chance of a lifetime!

 

Richard Punchfist

It’s the pinnacle of being sexy and cool! Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino!

 

[They run out of the toilets, yelling.]

 

[The massive Cadillac with a V8 engine pulls up outside FOX NEWS TV Centre. Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino is standing outside, obviously waiting for someone. Richard Punchfist and Adrian Ferrari leap out and rush over to him.]

 

Richard Punchfist

It’s Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino!

 

Al Pacino

Yes… I’m Al…

 

Richard Punchfist

It’s Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck goddamn shit fuckin’ Al Pacino. Look, everybody, it’s Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck goddamn shit fuckin’ Al Pacino! We’re gonna take out Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino.

 

Al Pacino

Congratulations, congratulations, congratulations. Eh, my car’s over there…

 

Adrian Ferrari

No, Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck, you… get in here…

[indicates the massive Cadillac with a V8 engine]

 

Richard Punchfist

That’s right! You drink, we drive!

 

Al Pacino

Well, actually, I have reserved a table for three at the Big Sexy Nightclub…

 

Richard Punchfist

The Big Sexy Nightclub!

 

Al Pacino

Yes, the Big Sexy Nightclub.

 

Adrian Ferrari

The Big Sexy Nightclub with Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck goddamn shit fuckin’ Al Pacino!

 

Richard Punchfist

Fuckin A fuckin’ 1, bitch!!

 

Adrian Ferrari

Let’s go!

 

[They zoom off. Signor El Diablo’s black Citroen follows.]

 

[At the Big Sexy Nightclub; elegant music plays. Muffled conversation is punctuated by the clinking of glasses and cutlery.]

 

Richard Punchfist

So, Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino, I hear they’re making “Angels In America” into a film.

 

Al Pacino

[coughing]

What exactly, eh, was your winning slogan?

 

Richard Punchfist

“Never, ever, goddamn shit fuckin’ anything, ever!”

 

Al Pacino

And that was your winning slogan?

 

Richard Punchfist

That’s the one, Al. I’ve lived my life by that rule!

 

Al Pacino

“I would like to spend an evening with Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino because… ‘Never, ever, ever, goddamn shit fuckin’ anything ever'”?

 

Richard Punchfist

So, Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck. I suppose you spend most of your time opening supermarkets and heliports these days?

 

Al Pacino

Well, yes, you, you know how it is, yes, eh… As a matter of fact, tomorrow I am opening a coke and drugs emporium.

 

Richard Punchfist

God, imagine being so important you can open a coke and drugs emporium!

 

Adrian Ferrari

And we’re with him right now, aren’t we, Pacino-baby?

 

Richard Punchfist

Come on, let’s go and have a tattoo!

 

Both

Come on!

[they charge out, knocking over tables]

 

[Mr. Signor El Diablo, hiding behind the lamp on his table, watches them leave.]

 

[Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino’ house. Richard Punchfist is pouring himself a large fuckin’ whisky, brewed in the Rockies.]

 

Adrian Ferrari

More Scotch!

 

Al Pacino

[on the cellphone)

But you’re my President, you’ve got to do something! Well, they’re the strangest Mr. and Mrs. Sally Fields I’ve ever met. Are you sure they’re not Terry Scott’s winners?

 

Richard Punchfist

[shouting from upstairs]

Hey Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck, some of these toilets have got taps on!

 

Al Pacino

I can’t call the police.

[sound of massive explosions]

If they caught me here with these two, it’d ruin my reputation. I mean, I’m, I’m a family entertainer, remember? You’ve no idea what…

[sound of someone falling down the stairs]

Oh, my God, it’s, it’s getting worse…

 

Richard Punchfist

You wanna watch those stairs, Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck.

 

Al Pacino

[more massive explosions]

Well, you’ve got to do something, they’re breaking the place up!

 

Adrian Ferrari:

This bottle is empty. Have you got one that’s exactly the same, but unopened?

 

Al Pacino:

I haven’t got any more bottles!

 

Adrian Ferrari:

Right. Good night.

[drops bottle]

 

[Outside. Al Pacino watches from the doorway as Richard Punchfist and Adrian Ferrari stumble to the massive Cadillac with a V8 engine.]

 

[They get into the massive Cadillac with a V8 engine, singing “The Godfather” theme tune. Adrian Ferrari starts the massive Cadillac with a V8 engine, revs it up, and slumps fast asleep on the steering-wheel.]

 

[Early morning. Signor El Diablo’s Evil Drug Barons are at work in a field digging a grave.

 

Signor El Diablo’s muscle cruiser with rocket launchers – a large black vintage Citroen – draws up.

 

Mr. Signor El Diablo gets out. He is smartly dressed in polished white shoes, white suit and slicked-back hair.

 

Evil Drug Baron

[looking through binoculars]

They’re leaving the house, Mr. Signor El Diablo.

 

[Richard Punchfist and Adrian Ferrari drive crazily through the lanes, finally crashing into the rear of Signor El Diablo’s muscle cruiser with rocket launchers. They get out.]

 

Adrian Ferrari

What the goddamn shit fuckin’ hell kind of driving do you call that!? Show us your goddamn shit fuckin’ license!

 

[They start kicking the muscle cruiser with rocket launchers.]

 

Evil Drug Barons

Shut yer goddamn face, creep!

 

[The Evil Drug Barons start beating them up.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Oh, it’s a shoot out with big guns you want is is? Oof! That’s it, that’s it! We surrender.

 

Signor El Diablo

Good morning.

 

Richard Punchfist

[nervously]

Good morning… Sir.

 

Signor El Diablo

Which one of you is Mr Not An Assassin?

 

Richard Punchfist

Oh, er, I am Mr… Or rather he is Mr Not An Assassin. Ah, Mr Not An Assassin, there’s someone to see you.

 

Signor El Diablo

Where’s the body?

 

Adrian Ferrari

Er, probably in bed with a load of hot, sexy chicks. We had a bit of a rough night last night.

 

Signor El Diablo

Look, did you or did you not take out Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino?

 

Adrian Ferrari

Yeah, we took him to the Big Sexy Nightclub!

 

Signor El Diablo

No no, I meant “Blow up him”.

 

[The Evil Drug Barons chuckle.]

 

Both

Oh, blow up him, haha…

 

[They try to run. The Evil Drug Barons drag them back and throw them against the side of the massive Cadillac with a V8 engine.]

 

Signor El Diablo

Now if you don’t blow up Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino by twelve o’clock, I’ll blow up you. Make it tidy.

[places gun on roof of massive Cadillac with a V8 engine)

Or if you can’t do that, make it messy.

[adds a Chainsaw with a machine gun on it]

 

Butch Jawclench

Yeah. And if you can’t make it messy, make it… noisy.

[two hand grenades]

 

Evil Drug Baron

And if you can’t make it noisy, make it stupid.

[nuclear rocket launcher]

 

[Adrian Ferrari starts up the Chainsaw with a machine gun on it, and puts it on the dashboard of the massive Cadillac with a V8 engine.

 

The massive Cadillac with a V8 engine reverses, smashing into the muscle cruiser with rocket launchers, before Adrian Ferrari gets it

in gear and they set off towards the house.]

 

[The massive Cadillac with a V8 engine pulls up in the road outside Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Parson’s house.]

 

[Al Pacino is leaving by the back door.]

 

Al Pacino

Darling, I’ve got to go! Just stay upstairs until I get back.

 

[Al Pacino gets into a waiting fleet of helicopters and flies off.]

 

[Cut to the Evil Drug Barons waiting in Signor El Diablo’s muscle cruiser with rocket launchers.]

 

Butch Jawclench

They’ve let him go! Al Pacino’ off in a fleet of choppers!

 

Signor El Diablo

goddamn fuckin’ piss dicks, let’s get them.

 

[Back at the house…]

 

Richard Punchfist

Follow that fleet of helicopters!

 

[A chase scene with seventies-style bongo music. Richard Punchfist and Adrian Ferrari are tearing along the country lanes in the massive Cadillac with a V8 engine .]

 

Richard Punchfist

Well, this is a turn-up for the books, isn’t it?

 

Adrian Ferrari

Yeah, you’d have thought he’d have shown us his fleet of choppers last night!

 

[Signor El Diablo’s muscle cruiser with rocket launchers is in hot pursuit.]

 

[Cut to Parson’s fleet of helicopters. Al Pacino points and opens the door.]

 

Al Pacino

Laurie, that’s it, down there.

 

[Al Pacino descends from the fleet of helicopters on a rope ladder, in front of Brucey Bignuts coke and drugs emporium.]

 

Al Pacino

Ahhh, hello everybody. Thank you, thank you… There’s nobody here!?

 

[In the massive Cadillac with a V8 engine.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Look, can’t you make this goddamn shit fuckin’ machine go any faster?

 

Adrian Ferrari

No, I goddamn shit fuckin’ can’t!

 

Richard Punchfist

Well, we’ll forget the whole goddamn shit fuckin’ thing then!

 

[He closes the door. The massive Cadillac with a V8 engine drives up a ramp, ending up smashing through a plate glass window and setting off a series of massive explosions, before ending up sliding along on it’s roof before coming to a stop.]

 

[Outside Sex and Drugs Emporium, mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino, looking for any signs of life, enters the stairwell leading to the Hot Sexy Chicks Agency office.]

 

Al Pacino

Bignuts!

[walks up the stairs]

Mr. Bignuts! Mr… God, what a place! Mr. Bignuts!

 

[Adrian Ferrari and Richard Punchfist are running along the street. Adrian Ferrari disappears into a corner swanky wine bar while Richard Punchfist continues running round the corner. Adrian Ferrari comes

out of the swanky wine bar’s other door carrying two woman and pursued by ninjas. They have sex with the woman and fight the ninjas, then continue running.

 

Al Pacino knocks on Mr Not An Assassin’s door. Mr Not An Assassin’s outline is visible through the frosted glass; he is wearing a bloodstained apron and carrying a large meat-cleaver.]

 

Mr Not An Assassin

Who is it?

 

Al Pacino

Er, Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino. Do you think I could use your cellphone made of gold?

 

Mr Not An Assassin

Look!… Anybody know you’re here?

 

Al Pacino

Apparently not!

 

Mr Not An Assassin

[motioning]

Come on in…

 

[He goes in and closes the door behind them. Adrian Ferrari and Richard Punchfist run up the stairs; Adrian Ferrari fumbles for his keys, Richard Punchfist pushes the door open.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Get in!

 

[In their office.]

 

Richard Punchfist

Right, get the suitcases, we’re going to Rio by dinosaur!

 

[Signor El Diablo and the Evil Drug Barons get into the lift. Richard Punchfist and Adrian Ferrari run out onto the landing, carrying suitcases and wearing sunglasses and then run for the lift.]

 

[Ting! The lift arrives. They pull back the gates to find Signor El Diablo and his Evil Drug Barons. Richard Punchfist slams the gates closed and they rush into the office, slamming the door behind them. The Evil Drug Barons open the gates and Signor El Diablo knocks at Mr Not An Assassin’s door.]

 

Mr Not An Assassin

Yeah?

 

Signor El Diablo

We’re looking for Mr Not An Assassin.

 

Mr Not An Assassin

Are we talking “Fast cars and drugs”?

 

Signor El Diablo

Ehh, we’re talking a very fast cars and drugs…

 

Mr Not An Assassin

Come on in then… Excuse the mess…

 

Signor El Diablo

Now then, ah, where is Mr Not An Assassin?

 

Mr Not An Assassin

I’m Mr Not An Assassin. Now, what about this three grand?

 

[Butch Jawclench, standing by the door of Mr Not An Assassin’s office, sees the leaves of the plant moving next door. He opens the door and speaks to the Evil Drug Barons outside.]

 

Butch Jawclench

Here, better check out that office!

 

[He points with his pelvis, forgetting his penis is missing.

The Evil Drug Barons race off. They burst into the Dreamytime office to find it empty. Richard Punchfist and Adrian Ferrari are lowering themselves in the metal bucket.]

 

[The bucket lands with a clang outside the coke and drugs emporium. They run off, see the posters on the windows, and run back.]

 

Adrian Ferrari

Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino!

 

Richard Punchfist

Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino at Brucey Bignuts!

 

Adrian Ferrari

Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino is coming here today!

 

Richard Punchfist

Rum, six dollars forty!

 

[Brucey Bignuts is just opening up.]

 

Adrian Ferrari

Brucey Bignuts, Brucey Bignuts, is it true?

 

Brucey Bignuts

Yes it is! Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino is coming here today!

 

Richard Punchfist

But this is a dream come true! Come on!

 

Adrian Ferrari

Come on!

 

Brucey Bignuts

Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, I know you’re excited, but you’ll just have to be patient

 

Adrian Ferrari

Patience my huge massive dick!

 

[Adrian Ferrari hits Brucey Bignuts; he falls down.]

 

[They go into the coke and drugs emporium and admire the stock.]

 

Adrian Ferrari

Matheus Rose, Hirondelle, Paul Masson! All the greats!

 

Richard Punchfist

This is fantastic! All we have to do is hole up here, wait for Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino to arrive, and then blow him up.

 

[Upstairs in Mr Not An Assassin’s office the shots are still audible.]

 

Signor El Diablo

If you’re Mr Not An Assassin, where’s Mutherfuckin’ shit fuck Al Pacino?

 

Mr Not An Assassin

Oh, I just Mad Monkey kung-fu’d him.

 

Signor El Diablo

You’re a liar!

 

Mr Not An Assassin

Have it your own way…

 

Signor El Diablo

What is going on?

 

[Back in the whisky factory]

 

Adrian Ferrari

Goddamn shit fuckin’ hell, I need a drink!

 

Richard Punchfist

So do I.

 

Adrian Ferrari

What do you fancy? Fuckin’ whisky, brewed in the Rockies and more Fuckin’ whisky, brewed in the Rockies?

 

Richard Punchfist

That’ll do nicely.

 

[Richard Punchfist holds up a bottle of fuckin’ whisky, brewed in the Rockies.]

 

[Adrian Ferrari takes a bottle of “Signor El Diablo’s Incredibly Sparkling” Scotch on the rocks and shows it to Richard Punchfist.]

 

[Adrian Ferrari smashes the neck of the bottle on a shelf. A huge explosion blows all the windows out of the whisky factory. Fade to black.]

 

 

I was reading in a report the other week that Britain is showing more racist opinions based on an online survey of around 4,000 people. There were several reasons put forward for this – one of which proposed that people were more comfortable espousing their right wing viewpoints and another of which backed up the thesis that the plunging economy had bred a new insularity amongst the populace. What all the arguments failed to take into consideration was the truth that anyone who goes onto these online polls are fucking mental to begin with.

For instance, last week I did a big jobbie. I then put a poll online to see how bigoted jobbies were. Fourty eight percent of respondents replied that great big steaming jobbies were indeed bigoted. People will click any old bollocks online.

But is the UK becoming more racist? People say to me ‘Stop touching my fanny, and while we’re on the subject of UKIP, doesn’t the European results show us that the UK is, indeed, turning into a big pile of old racism?’ What these people who won’t let me touch their fannies are missing is that very few people actually voted in the European elections, and the majority that voted for UKIP did so because they thought it was somebody making a suggestion. “You Kip? Why, that sounds like a marvellous idea. I’m feeling a bit tired. I shall tick their box.” That’s because people in the UK are fucking stupid. It’s something in the genes. They don’t mind a bit of fascism, especially if it involves somebody laughing at a pint. UKNOB could campaign up and down the high streets in brown shirts and tanks, throwing Nazi salutes and exterminating all those they perceive to be impure (basically everyone who doesn’t live in Kent), but as long as their Ubermensch Farage laughs at a pint certain sections of the voting public will see him as a genial old duffer who’s definitely not leading a party of complete mentals.

“But it was a protest vote!” I hear some people say, mainly those who stare at lamp posts wondering how they light the candle at the top. But if it was just a protest vote why not vote for a party that doesn’t come across like a mass rally of bigoted clueless cunt biscuits? Even the Greens have a fucking financial plan – mainly involving trading cucumbers on the stock exchange and everyone using cabbages as legal tender – but at least it’s a fucking plan. UBELLEND’s financial acumen extends to how much they can scam off the European Parliament. ‘Protest vote’ my granddad’s bottom!

But to get back to my original subject, ‘will you touch my penis’ – I mean, ‘can we trust the opinion polls’. No. If only for the basic fact that if you want to answer a positive to the question “Is Britain becoming more racist?” you head straight down to a pub like The Dog and Fascist Bootboy Brownshirt O’Nazi’s House of Shaven Headed Nutter Bollocks and not Mr Liberal’s Artisan Ale House of Flower Arranging Hippies. So next time there’s a big headline with ‘Britain Says Kick All Foreign Types Out’ in The Daily ExpressStarMailSun where it contains the passage ‘we polled a load of people and they all wanted to touch Nigel Farage’s bottom’ bear in mind they probably polled about 200 people who think doing a big cak in their skidmarked undercrackers is a politically savvy move.

In The Silence of My Pants head cannibal Hannibal Rectum says “A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti” when what he actually meant to say was “A pollster once tried to take my opinion. I did a big fart and then flicked the V’s at a orphaned kitten.” I use this to illustrate my point that polls are talking shit, much like this column. For example, fourteen per cent of the ninety six people we polled in thirty percent of the local constituency said they would much rather eat beans than have their knackers booted for eternity, even though eighty three percent of them were women, of which four percent had big pants made out of a unicorn’s knob.

See – total bollocks. You can make anything up with polls and statistics, and most of the cheesy knobends who voted for UFUCKINGARSEHOLE were the only ones sad and pathetic enough to believe Der Sturmer (more formerly known as The Mail) when they published dubious polls saying we all hate foreigners and Nigel Farage and his team of gimlet brained chronic masturbators are right about political issues. The only reason Farage is laughing in the fucking photographs is because he hasn’t figured out which end of the pint to drink from. Twat.

But in these days of restricted speech and Farage’s press officer getting the filth to knock on people’s doors every time someone posts an anti-UTAGNUTs post on some fucking internet forum, it must be stated that all this is done in jest, and at no point do I wish to see Nigel Farage slapped about the face with a wet fish until he stops becoming a cunt, because let’s face it , that could take forever. Mind you, no one reads this shit anyway. Although the way the NSA are these days there’s probably some CIA internet snooper picking up the words ‘Farage’ and ‘fish’ and have already sent the Creationist lot around to convince me with their persuasion clubs that god is real and evolution is made up by evil pixies.

Mind you, Dawkins isn’t much better. In a recent poll eighty five percent of people said the miserable cunt should cheer up a bit.

I seem to have strayed off the point somewhat. I would just like to end this political essay with the words ‘jizz bucket knob spanner’ which, after polling a bunch of minnows in a pond somewhere, eighty five percent of the amphibians believed this should be UTINYCOCKs new slogan.

And fourty percent of them were lying.

Thirty three percent said they liked cheesy helmets.

But only two per cent of them could drive a tractor.

EXTRA

Here at Sortitaht Towers we have discovered a previously unreleased section from Shakespeare’s King John which we publish below:

KING PHILIP

Well could I bear that England had this praise,
So we could find some pattern of our shame.

Enter CONSTANCE

Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul;
Holding the eternal spirit against her will,
In the vile prison of afflicted breath.
I prithee, lady, go away with me.

 

CONSTANCE

Lo, now I now see the issue of your peace, which is really rude when you think about it – OOER, MADAM!!!

 

KING PHILIP

Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance!

 

CONSTANCE

Bloody call me ‘good lady’ you big ponce!

More like ‘Here comes that ninja god queen

The one with the massive jugs

Who’s totally cool and hip and down with

The kids

Forsooth and versily

She can knock out an elephant

With her fanny alone

Prithee.’

Ahem
O, come to me!

OOO-BLOODY-EERRRRR!!!!

 

KING PHILIP

O fair affliction, peace!

Much like you’re an affliction

You old slapper

Now fack off!

 

CONSTANCE

Stitch that!

 

Nuts King Phillip

 

The End