DEAR HUGH 14 (APOLOGY EDITION)
Wednesday July 13th 2005
There has been a number of complaints. Actually, has there fuck; but just in case….
I thought it may be worth making clear at this point that “Dear Hugh” is a fiction; a collection of letters written in imaginary character by a grumpy old chap that do not in any way at all represent my pristinely-correct and politically-balanced personal views. If these “Dear Hugh” letters have been taken seriously in any way, I unreservedly apologise for unintentionally adding any distress at a most saddening time following this dreadful atrocity.
Anyway, Muslim zealots; what a bunch of cunts.
And before anybody starts reaching for the number of the Race Relations Board, let me again make it clear that I am NOT talking about the vast majority of kind and decent Muslims. It’s the ones who holiday at Billy Bin Laden’s desert Butlins camps who piss me off.
After giving much of my highly-expensive time to considering this matter, I believe that the Government has only a few choices:
1. Bomb Pakistan (and thereby have the bonus of burning off all of the smack that they deny growing there).
2. Bomb Leeds .
3. Bomb Marks & Spencer (in the interest of political balance).
4. Sort out the twat who thought that the BBC News At Ten’s opening headlines on The Situation now need the aural accompaniment of persistent drumming in order to better represent the gravity of it all.
Al Mac has come up with another suggestion; the institution of Compulsory Loin Cloth Wearing for anybody who looks like they might be secreting explosives about their person. This may make tolerating the British winters a little harsh, but these are difficult times and we all have to make sacrifices. Besides, encouragement of the Gandhi Look would make body searches easier. On the other hand it could cause complaints because if The Suspects use up all the available stash of muslin, how are we meant to drain the fruit when we’re making our jams and chutneys?
The new evidence that the bombers were British nationals raises an interesting prospect. Although the UK outlawed capital punishment back in the early Sixties, the penalty still exists, actually, for crimes of Treason. And also for Arson in Her Majesty’s Shipyards, by the way.
However, threatening suicide bombers with the rope is fuck-all use when these blokes believe in an Afterlife and in all of that Yes! We’re Going To Barbados crap. The solution is plainly clear, then – a national call-up of all philosophers who can demonstrate a priori that Paradise does not exist beyond the same-named massage centre and knocking shop in Swindon ’s Old Town district. With Paradise thus lost, it will be interesting to see just how many of these young Yorkshiremen fancy taking their balls off just for the craic.
The attentive among you will doubtless note that I have a degree in philosophy; one of two things that I share with Ricky Gervais (the other being fat). Few, however, will know that I have evidence that there is no such thing as Paradise. The frequency of the broadcast of EastEnders is proof of that.
I wonder how long it will take the scriptwriters of this or any other soap to write, by complete coincidence of course, a suicide bomber into the cast of characters? Judging by previous displays of their obscene chase of ratings, I’d give it about a week until Dirty Bomb Den checks into Albert Square . I expect the BBC is already thinking of getting topical with a new, Leeds-based series of Ground Force presented by Allah Titchmarsh.
In fact, seeing as there’s going to inevitably be calls soon for immigration restrictions and all sort of reactionary backlash, I’m surprised that Durex hasn’t yet decided to do its bit for ethnic population controls by announcing the launch of the Osama Gossamer.
And here’s another thing that gets me as cross as fuck – poodles. I am especially on their case because they, or rather it, is the only animal that makes my dog Jimi bark like a seal taking it up the arse from one of those charming Canadian furriers (oh, come on – why else do you think that so many Cannucks isolated in the back of beyond volunteer for that vile work?).
Anyway, as you are a man of wide experience I thought you may have a few explanations of why my dog barks at poodles. Is it his natural irritation at owners who only have pets that they can shape like a hedge, or is there more to it?
Talking, as we were, about the ECT treatment that are soap operas, I am hoping that the one exception to these foul programmes, The Archers, will shortly react to the horrific news revealed on Radio 4’s bulletins yesterday.
Following the report that the EC says vitamins give you kidney disease (dead handy to know as it’ll stop all those nannies doing that “have you taken your tablet?” malarkey), The News With Brian Perkins announced that something called The Countryside Agency says that if more “urban people” get out into the fields then the national problems of obesity and high blood pressure will be considerably lessened.
Apparently this Agency wants “quotas” of “young urban, multicultural guests” to put that Cliffy track on their thieved car stereos and head out here.
Now hang on just a fucking minute. Where in the small print of the recent manifesto was that proposed? I have absolutely no recollection of voting to extend the hospitality of The King’s Arms to a bunch of Burberry-wearing Ford drivers. I didn’t get where I am today by socialising with people whose girlfriend Janice drinks rum and black.
Besides, the health-less urbanites whom the fretting Countryside Agency is so bothered about would hate it out here; there’s not enough people to rob and, as far as I am aware, none of the pubs around here do a Pot Noodle Ploughman’s. And the Jobcentre’s miles away.
No, as my good friend Prince Charles used to say before he was stitched up like a kipper by people claiming unfair dismissal because he wouldn’t make them Queen or some such, “everyone in his place”. Quite and the place of the likes of the Brothers Mitchell is not around here. They don’t understand country ways and they’ll get quite the wrong idea of what, say, all of that “Arab Breeding” over Newbury way is all about. They’d be out all night searching for the cages. Looking to feed them sheep’s eyes and dodgy hookers and that sort of thing.
No, it takes an English rural gentleman to appreciate that enjoying Cottage Pie does not involve hanging about in toilets. And for those few of us remaining, here follows the recipe.