Friday, 13 September 2013

OBITUARY: Reverend Dr Julius Emery

(Above: The Revererend Emery yesterday)
The Satire today bids farewell to our Religious Affairs Correspondent the Extremely Reverend Prof Dr Julius Emery, who passed away peacefully in prayer aboard a rocket hurtling into space at a speed of 12000 miles an hour and reaching an inner-hull temperature in excess of 8000 degrees farenheight.
Unfortunately Dr Emery had been mistakenly informed by his medical advisor (Dr Seamus Beejezus O'Flaherty) that merely stripping down to his swimming trunks and sunhat and dabbing on some Factor 12 would be enough to protect him from the excessive heat during launch. This unfortunately proved not to be the case.
Reverend Emery is remembered by the staff and patients of Broadmoor and by the staff and patients here at the offices of The Satire.
He leaves behind the world's largest collection of antique micrscopes (current valuation £26.4m Euros) and a strange Irishman claiming to be his long-lost half-brother and heir to the Emery estate.
Thankfully the vending machine remains intact and is currently sitting in the foyer of The Satire reception area where it continues to dispense molten snacks and beverages to anyone wearing the requisite asbestos clothing and visor.
Bobo the chimp was seen leaving the capsule by parachute shortly before take-off.

Thought For the Day with The Extremely Reverend Prof Dr Julius Emery ...

Good Evening.
You know, when I look around me at the world today, I often see the hand of our Lord at work.
Whether it be the white-faced clown with a single tear running down his face, that young lady tennis player scatching her bare bottoms or that chimp sitting on the lavatory - the Lord's work is there for all to see if we would just look closely enough.
I remember it was with this very idea in mind that I first asked my parents for a microscope for my 5th birthday. It really was a most exciting day and as I unwrapped the paper and lifted the delicate instrument from its cardboard housing, my fingers were trembling with excitement and anticipation.
I remember thinking, if I can just get close enough to the detail, I will surely be able to see the hand of our Lord in action - maybe even gaze upon the face of Yaweh himself.
But it was not to be. The closest I could get was the veins of a leaf - which really wasn't quite the same and I soon became despondent ...
I eventually convinced my parents to buy me a much bigger microscope - but alas even that was not able to see the face of God and I began to fixate on the idea that He was deliberately and maliciously hiding from me.
My parents attempted to console me by re-mortgaging their house, taking out a crippling loan and buying me, at the time, the largest electron microscope in Europe - but it was all to no avail. The Lord's omniscient presence remained veiled from mine eyes, the big beardy twat.
It was then (and only then) that I turned quite violent, railing oh most mightily against the Lord.
"You fucking cunt, why the fuck won't you show yourself you smug fucking wanker. Well, fuck you! And what in the name of holy fuck are you looking at mother? You're nothing more than a spunk receptacle for that old hanging ball-bag who calls himself my father. Fuck both of you. CUNTS, the lot of you!" and so on, I continued.
I must confess gentle listener, the incident almost ruined my 7th birthday party entirely...
And 60 years of therapy later, the ECT, the enforced sectioning and hospitalisation in Broadmoor Secure Hospital - all have alas failed to slake that particular thirst.
But eventually they did let me leave Broadmoor, my head bowed but my search still unfulfilled.
Unfortunately, due to my 'Crimes' The Church of England refused to have me back within the formal ministry, but luckily Mr Laird and Mr Mingles here at the esteemed offices of The Satire welcomed me with open arms (Not literally of course - Mr Laird is notoriously antisocial and Mr Mingles is a well-known germophobe. So they both greeted me from quite a distance away across the long oak-lined corridor outside the main boardroom.)
I did attempt to step forward and thank them both personally but the large gentleman who leaped out from the shadows and smashed the butt of his rifle efficiently into the bridge of my nose made it clear this was not recommended.
And it was whilst working here at The Satire that it occured to me what I had been doing wrong for all these very long years.
Of course the Lord could not 'literally' be found within the natural world. He should of course be sought outside of it - like in all those big paintings with his face looking beneficently down.
What a silly old sausage I had been.
It was with all of this in mind that I launched the Satire Space Programme. To allow me the opportunity to soar off into the Heavens and to fulfill my lifelong dream to see the face of our Lord.
15 years in the construction and with a cost in excess of three thousand pounds (not euros mind you - actual english pounds!) this rocket seems destined to roar into the outer atmosphere beyond the stars and out towards my Maker.
It may takes a few days to reach the Lord of course but I am well-prepared with a vending machine which seems to dispense an endless supply of ready-salted crisps, sweets and fizzy pop - in other words all one needs to survive.
They really are quite miraculous contraptions and in fact the vast majority of our enormous budget went on this astonishing machine - sold to me by a kind old irish gentleman in a public bar.
Nevertheless, the 500 Mighty British Pounds left over is still an exceedingly large sum of money and was more than enough to build the rocket, pay for the fuel and (so I am reliably informed) fully train the elderly chimpanzee who is to be my companion and co-pilot on this marvelous fantastical journey.
So - Bon Voyage, Ship Ahoy, God's Speed and Off We Go!

"The Boys Won't Let Me Plaaay!" Sobs Top Scottish Feminist

Miss MacClinton makes her feelings clear on the Patriarchy not buying her a pony

A top Scottish feminist roared and gret her eyes out at the boys not letting her join in the games yesterday.

Miss Hillary MacClinton(7) of Ravelston Dykes(that's an address not a women's support group) sobbed in the playground..

"I'm so sick and fed up an tired of the boys being mean to me, they never let me play football or soldiers or anything that involves throwing. The only thing they let me play is climbing, so they can see my pants. It's no fair!"

Toby Stevens(8)angrily hit back at her accusations.

"She's just a diva. Whatever that is. She's rubbish at throwing and runs like she's wearing calipers. If she doesn't get her own way she just greets and greets until someone forces us to let her join in. God help us all if she doesn't win. She throws a tantrum. Last week we had a race where the teacher gave her a head start of ten meters. TEN METERS! It was only a 50 meter race for flips sake and she still lost. But she screamed that much that the teacher said Hillary was the real winner and gave her the prize. I'm not playing with her anymore."

Will Graham(6) on the other hand spoke up for Hillary.

"I think she's nice and pretty and I would like to kiss her. Whenever I stand near her I get a warm fuzzy feeling. If I speak up for her and not be like the other boys, she might let me. I think she likes Toby though." He said sadly.

In a shock move the Scottish feminist organisation SWAMT (Scottish Women Against Man Things) made Hillary their Honorary Chairperson yesterday.

"Young Hillary exemplifies the attitudes of the modern feminist and embodies our ethos. We are proud to admit her to our ranks after she finishes her homework." Said SWAMT leader Xena MacHarridan(Still none of your business).

Presenter and women's issues banger onner Kaye Adams(50 and wearing it) waded in.

"As I have been saying on my TV shows, Radio programme and weekly column in the Daily Record, women are denied a voice and have been for to long. Wee Hillary is an example to us all. Mair greetin' and less reasoned debate are what's needed. And you are not seeing MY pants, so there!"

"The boys are beastly, horrible and nasty and smell of poo!" added Hillary.

Hairdresser Sacked for "Lack of Bronzing"

Miss MacGraw outside the Tribunal offices in Bothwell St.  

A Glasgow hairdresser is taking her former employer to a tribunal for Unfair Dismissal claiming she has been "discriminiminated against an' that".

Chavonne MacGraw(19) was dismissed from her position at Celine's Salon, Dennistoun Glasgow in July this year.
According to salon owner/manager Celine McCabe(24), Chavonne was sacked after failing to come up to the standard required for skin tone in the salon.
"We have certain standards in this shoap(sic). It's a' very well being able tae dae folks hair an' that, but in the end if yer skins no orange enough folk'l no respect an trust ye. Chavonne was gave hunners of chances tae get her coupon up tae scratch. She just wisnae tryin. We started a wee lassie fae Bridgeton last Saturday who wis a wee bit peely wally an that. But she's been oan they sunbeds constantly an in jist ane week she's lookin like Tutankhamen. That's dedication fur ye."
Chavonne hit back, "It's no ma fault! It's discriminimination an' that. Av been drinkin' Sunny D like it's gaun oot ae fashion. A spent a fortune oan they sunbeds an fake tan treatments. A jist don't hiv the complexion tae start wi. Whit difference dis it make tae the way a dae ma joab?"
The Satire put Chavonne's surprisingly reasonable seeming question to our madly badly misinformed regular rent-a-quote, Celine customer, and self professed polymath, Maureen MacGlinchie of Parkhead.
"A feel sorry fur the lassie as joabs ur scarce, whit wi hur hivin a record fur shoapliftin an that, bit the rules ur the rules. Don't even think aboot comin near ma Glesga Fair unless ye look like ye personally witnessed the Hiroshima bomb fae a hunner yards away. Ah wid drap this case if a wis hur. As Celine's boyfriend Boaby isnae a man ye want tae trifle wi. There a said it."
Maureen may be referring to Celine's boyfriend Boaby's unorthodox "business" interests and associates.
Boaby "Barlinnie" Lennox from Glasgow's tough Provanmill area, who bought the salon for Celine as a birthday present to "gie his his heid peace."
It's been rumoured he may have had another motive when a recent audit revealed that the tiny salon would have to be processing 712 customers a day to justify the lucrative profits it appears to make.
Miss MacGraw is not without her own connections however, her uncle being a notorious crime lord himself, and there are fears that the situation could escalate into "Tanwars".
The case continues.

Wednesday, 4 September 2013

OBITUARY : RIP Colonel Tommy Pritchard

Tommy as he would often appear at The Satire offices. In later years naked from the waist down

The Satire today bids farewell to its Sports Editor Colonel Tommy Pritchard, who passed away peacefully in his sleep behind the wheel of his 1984 Citroen Clio on the M8.

Born Colonel Thomas Randolph Ambidexter Pritchard of a Scots Presbyterian father and American Quaker mother in Thika Kenya in 1941, "Tommy" spent his formative years among the colonial prosperity of the happy valley set. The title for Elspeth Huxley's novel The Flame Trees...came from the time that young Tommy set fire to a local plantation, ruining the owner. Luckily he managed to blame it on the houseboy who later died in police custody. No formal charges were ever pressed.

Tommy enlisted in the KAR in 1959 where due to a mix up arising from his name he was able to become the youngest ever commanding officer of the 3rd Battalion. In a disaster in the last years of the Mau Mau owing to his complete lack of experience he managed to surround and attack a column of his own askaris and sustain the onslaught for 31 days. On discovering his mistake he slipped out of camp during the night and joined the surrounded troops on the other side. In the confusion he was able to mount a counter attack against those under his former command and overwhelm them. This was recorded as one of the greatest breakouts ever and he was mentioned in dispatches leading to him being decorated for gallantry.

Tommy joined The Satire from the Army in 1971 after a very brief and unsuccessful stint at a regional boys boarding school, although no formal charges were ever pressed.
He quickly gained a reputation at The Satire as a somewhat boisterous devil-may-care character would often be found wrestling naked on the floor of the photo-editors suite with Sambo his man-servant from his time out in East Africa helping to build a football pitch in a private boys school, although no formal charges were ever pressed.

Tommy was known by all who knew him as very much a man's man. In his black leather chaps, white stetson, sequined waistcoat and enormous handlebar moustache he was a colourful presence around the Satire offices for over 40 years. And his posts on the ups and downs of under-14 schoolboy rugby, hockey, gymnastics and greco-roman wrestling (a sport he campaigned tirelessly to bring back into the curriculum - although no charges were ever pressed) were always a riveting read.

Tommy's later years were of course dogged with controversy. While involved in a protest against the Springbok tour of New Zealand in 1981, Tommy once again realised he was on the wrong side and attacked the anti apartheid protesters with a placard. In recent memory his playful attempts at "wrestling" the speedo's from an embarrassed Tom Daly at the London Olympics were much frowned upon. His colourful and some would say racist and sexist remarks were very much those of a man of his time and a constant affront to those who worked with him. Though again no formal charges were ever pressed.

He leaves behind an ex-wife in Mombasa, a young Romanian friend Nicu in the local Salvation Army hostel and a motorway strewn with wreckage.

Scottish Feminists Demand Men "Be Feart of Mice."

EEEeeeeeeeeeeek!!!! A mouse, like what women are feart of, in classic attack mode.

Hunners of unattractive women lobbied the Scottish government yesterday and demanded something be done about the mouse menace.
Xena MacHarridan (none of your fucking business) the chairperson for SWAMT (Scottish Women Against Man Things) told The Satire while brandishing a bread knife..
"For far to long the Patriarchy has tolerated these so-called wee cowerous timorous beasties plaguing the lives of the sisterhood. Something must be done. While it's true that there are many women who aren't feart of mice and many men who are, this only highlights the inequality built into the system. Much much more could be done to help women."

"Jumping Fuck!" Exclaimed Sir Richard Attenborough at his mansion last night. "As I told you cunts before I know fuck all about animals and especially mice!" He said wearily and slammed down the phone.
"Jumping Fuck!" Exclaimed Sir David Attenborough at the BBC last night. It's only a mouse. It can't harm you and if anything it's more afraid of YOU. I know I certainly am. I think the ladies need to chill the fuck out and be less hysterical."
"That's it, blame the victim why don't you. This is the kind of outdated male attitude we are trying to stamp out. It's about time men started to empathise a bit more. We already tried to make women less feart of mice by explaining things logically. It's not working. It's far easier for men to take some responsibility and start being feart of mice as well, bringing about more gender equality." Ms. MacHarridan gibbered on.
Among the many mental demands she and her sisters have put before Alex Neil the Minister for Gender equality are :

  • Free stools for women to jump on when accosted by a mouse.
  • A free broom to try to hit the we bugger with as it darts about terrified.
  • That males as young as 6 weeks old be traumatised with mice in their cot, and propagandised with nazi style public information films on the evils and dangers of mice.
  • That it be made illegal to be unafraid of mice and beasties in general.
  • That cartoons showing mice in a positive light IE. Mickey Mouse, Danger Mouse, Speedy Gonzalez etc. be banned.
  • That mice be re-educated and taught how not to harass women.
"That final demand should be accompanied by a government funded nation wide poster and TV ad campaign targeting mice. 'Don't be THAT Mouse' should be the tag line. Men should also be made to wear a skirt when confronting a mouse, so that they can fully appreciate the horror involved in the insane primordial notion that it might run up your leg and get stuck in your jacky danny." Said Xena finally putting the knife back in her handbag.

"I'm Pissed Off With Being Mistaken for Coulthard!" Says Bloke off of Ferrero Rochet Advert



That German bloke off of the 90's Chocolate commercial has remarked that he's right fucked off with being confused with the Desperate Dan chinned British racing driver.

Wolf Kahler(73) the 6'2 actor who played a Nazi in Raiders of the Lost Ark told The Satire.

"Ich bin right fucked off mit zis. We are not even der same age fur fucksakes. It's embarrassing. Someone will ask me for mein autograph then say 'you look much younger on the telly Mr. Coulthard'. Gott in Himmel!"

Mr. Kahler from Kiel in Schleswig-Holstein who played a Nazi in Band of Brothers, blitzkrieged on..

"Ich wouldn't mind if it only went that far occasionally but it seems to be every other week now. Ich habe to avoid any motor sport related activities. Ich was delighted to be invited on Top Gear last month only to realise zat zey had made der same mistake. Schweinhunde!"

Wolf who played a Nazi in The Sea Wolves alongside Gregory Peck and Roger Moore stormed...

"It's getting beyond ein joke. Das final straw came when Michael Schumacher smashed his trolley into me in a supermarket in Koln then punched me in mein box shaped coupon. Before I could explain he'd knocked me clean out. Der twat! This would never have happened if Germany won the war. Seig Heil!" He thundered.

Kahler who acted the part of a Nazi in The Remains of The Day alongside Anthony Hopkins is set to play a Spanish transsexual prostitute in an upcoming David Lynch movie.*

*We apologise for the above inaccuracy. Wolf Kahler will be in fact playing the part of a Nazi in the upcoming sequel to Iron Skies.