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Wildlife with David Attaboy



It is a cold and wet night in the Bigg Market, but that does not deter Geordie 'lads' from strutting in their T-shirts. Displaying on their chests 'Toon', 'Tits oot', and ' Top Sh@gger'.


Likewise, the 'lasses' parade in short tight skirts, almost displaying their reproductive organs.

The males exchange their calls of approval: 'bonny', 'fit', 'stacked', and 'gagging fer it'.


Any contact between the sexes will take place later in the evening after they have visited the many watering holes in the area, where everyone will get 'tanked oop'. Perhaps they may exchange conversation in the bars where deafening music plays. Using such phrase as 'are you up for it?', 'I'm gagging for it', and the age old 'you don't sweat much for a fat bird'.


Sadly, many of the encounters will not fulfill the desired coition. Many will be passed out on the pavement or 'howking their guts up' by the bins.


Next week, we witness a 'punch up' between rival gangs out side a club in Swansea.




Drunk Brits force Hercules to return to Khartoum




A rescue plane was forced to return to Khartoum today after a group of rowdy drunken Brits harassed fellow passengers, sang the national anthem while standing on seats, and punched a flight attendant. The Hercules transport had already been delayed because a passenger insisted on ‘nipping out’ for fags on learning the duty free shop had been shelled.


An RAF spokesperson said: ‘We can confirm that our Hercules transport made an emergency landing in a war zone because that was preferable to continuing with a cargo of Brits. They sang the tune to The Great Escape in front of German passengers and tried to open the doors at 30,000 feet.’


Ryanair has confirmed that a fleet of its planes have arrived in Khartoum to help with the rescue operation. Thousands who were fleeing the conflict have decided to stay and take their chances.



Thatcher’s ghost dictating economic policies via p*ssed medium



Today we’re with Sally Preston, a psychic with a drink problem who has been helping Her Majesty’s Government set economic policy by conversing with the ghost of Margaret Thatcher.


Sally gives me an appraising look. 'You’ve lost somebody close to you. Is the letter H significant?'


'No', I say, then immediately feel guilty as she seems so vulnerable, swigging away from her bottle of Jacob’s Creek chardonnay. 'Oh, I used to have a hat'.


'That’ll be it', she tells me, before slumping back into her chair, seemingly half asleep.


'Are you here about the economy?'


'Yes', I lie. Sometimes an investigative journalist has to push the boundaries.


Sally takes another drink from her bottle and her eyelids flutter manically. 'Margaret is in the room. She’s saying something about National Insurance'.


'Does she want it to go up? Down?'


'Down!' she says, suddenly leaning forward and fixing me with a terrifying glare. 'And fracking. Ronald has told her it’s for the best. Frack the whole country'.


'Is Reagan there too?' I ask.


'Of course. They’re an item now'.


'What about interest rates?'


'That’s enough for today. I’m tired'. Sally hauls herself upright and scans around for the door. I’m tempted to ask about ghost sex but force myself to stick with economics.


'We need to know. Should they go up? How do we avoid recession?'


Sally is already halfway to the door, staggering a little. 'Privatise something. The NHS. Privatise the NHS. Oh, and she says the Oxford comma is an abomination. Get rid of it'.


And she’s gone. Britain’s leading economic adviser has left the room leaving only a faint aroma of chardonnay and piss, and I realise what the H was all about. Horseshit.


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