Talking Bollocks

Doctors in Spain have successfully created a new windpipe and transplanted it into a patient. True. But it's not an old windpipe, as in one donated by some poor bastard who died; it's a brand new one, as in one which was artificially grown and cloned from the patient's own stem cells. Experts (them bastards again) believe that such procedures will reduce the risk of such things being rejected by the person's body, as in the past with unsuccessful operations.

But why a new windpipe? What sort of person would need a new windpipe? Yes, you've guessed it - the person needing a new windpipe is...a woman. What a fucking surprise! And why did she need a new one? Because, one may presume, the old one got worn out because she never shut her fucking gob. She wore the bastard out nagging her husband, gossipping with her big-mouthed friends outside the school gates, spreading rumours and never shutting the fuck up for five minutes about wallpaper, new shoes, lipstick or her husband staying out till all hours at the pub.

Commenting on the successful transplant procedure, Dr Hector Santos-Roya of Madrid General Hospital, said: "The patient came to us last year with no windpipe left because she'd been gobbing off non-stop at her husband for twenty years, and we decided to do something about it. This new windpipe, or traceo-epiglottal implant, will last for anything upto forty years, long into old age. Indeed, it is so durable that, upon her death, it can be used to be transplanted again and give years of happing nagging and incessant drivel to some other waffling bitch."

The patient's husband, meanwhile, is believed to have filed for divorce.

But it makes you think...new windpipes grown from a person's own stem cells? It's fucking ghoulish, a positively fiendish imponderable too distasteful to consider. What next? Hmmm...some bloke could go to the doctor because his wife had cut his knob off and get them to grow him a new one from stem cells taken from his kneecap. They could make him a huge monster of a cock. Like a baby's arm. Or a man's kneecap.

I think the whole thing's fucking sick.

I had to laugh this morning when I heard that details of hundreds of members of the BNP (British National Party) had been leaked and published all over the Internet. Great stuff. Now there are all these little racist pieces of shit all over the country shitting a stick in case it comes out that they are little racist pieces of shit who want to keep Britain white. It is believed that, among the names published as either current or recent members of this so-called political party, there are police officers, teachers, judges, magistrates, social workers, TV personalities and even a priest or two...

"Good morning, my child, and how may I help you with your confession today?"

"Well, father, I have been looking at nasty things on the Internet and I feel ashamed."

"Don't worry about that, my son. There's nothing wrong with that. Lots of people do it. Was it the pronography thing, was it?"

"No, it was all that stuff about you going on marches and posting dog turds through Asians' letterboxes and shouting "nigger" at pictures of Lewis Hamilton..."

"Er...Jesus Christ...er...I mean, I have to go now."

Priests in the BNP? Surely not! Police officers, judges, magistrates and high-ranking members of the social services? Shock horror! On the radio they interviewed some cunt brave enough to face the media, some twat pretending not to be arsed about the whole thing. "People," he explained, "think that being a member of the BNP is something to be ashamed of. But it isn't. It's a proper political party with clear direction, and is now accepted within the British political spectrum. People think that because you're in the BNP you must be a racist, but I can tell you that's not the case...[Now you know what's coming, and I swear to God that he said this next bit]...I know lots of foreign people and most of them are fine. One of my friends is an Indian."

Wahey!!

That's him drummed out of the party first thing in the morning, then.
"What's this about you going on radio and telling everyone that you know some foreigners and most of them are okay? And what's that bollocks...one of your friends is an Asian? Go on, get out. And pick your white sheet and burning cross up on the way out. Nigger lover!"

But you shouldn't talk about racism on a day like today, not when England are playing (cue 'Dambusters' theme music fading in the background) Germany. Nothing ignites the old xenophobic torch of racial hatred more than a clash between the footballing nations of our very own and that of those bull-necked goose-stepping war-mongering Teutonic Kraut twats on the continent. Every time the fixture comes along, memories flood back...the trenches, the blitz, Kristallnacht, the Holocaust, Geoff Hurst, mustard gas, poppies, Gary Lineker, Chris Waddle (and countless others) missing penalties that your granny could have scored, guarded beach towels, Dunkirk, that fat bloke off 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang', Basil Fawlty, ration books, street parties and windpipes worn down to the nub with delirious cries of: "COME ON, ENGERLAND! GIVE 'EM WHAT THEY GAVE MY GRANNY IN 1943!!"

I love this country.