Dear Israelites,

To those of the Jewish faith,

My chosen people,

Hi peeps,

It is auspicious that you have chosen this day, 22nd May 2015, as the date for the Irish Republic’s marriage referendum as not only is it the wedding anniversary of the blogger who has kindly allowed me to to address you via his site, but it is also exactly 3,200 years, to the day, since I finished dictating the Torah, letter for letter, to Moses.

I remember it well (being omniscient I remember most things well) – Moses and I were sitting atop Mount Sinai (or Mount Horeb, if you’re reading a different chapter; we were a lot more lax with mountain back then) with the Torah laid out in front of us, chilling with a few beers.  It had been a difficult few weeks; I’m a bit of a perfectionist, Moses wasn’t the fastest writer, we’d lost a whole day arguing whether it was ‘beget’, ‘begat’, ‘begget’, beggat’, ‘bagget’ or ‘begeterated’, I’d had to ban Moses from asking ‘Why?’ all the way through Leviticus and I’d left chapter 34 of Deuteronomy until last – which was a mistake.

I suppose that it’s only natural that a few beers and having your all-powerful God dictate the details of your own ironic death to you will make a man a little maudlin, and so it was with Moses that afternoon.

“If you know everything then how does it all end?” he asked, after a great deal of cogitation.  I told him.

“What does ‘collateral damage’ mean, who’s ‘Katie Hopkins’, why was she being ‘neutralised’ and what is ‘weaponized small-pox’?” he asked.  I tried to explain.

“It all sounds very different in the future,” he suggested, “Are all these rules…” he waved at the Torah, “…still going to be relevant?”

Thirty-two centuries on and you’re still asking the same question.  Jesus.  No, not you, I was just cursing.  Seriously, come on people – I was telling the Israelites what they wanted to hear.  If I dragged one of you lot up to the top of a mountain to dictate a new bible it would be all about how cycling through red lights is punishable by death and cursed is he who talks during the Game of Thrones season finale.  If you’ve been trekking through the desert for 40 years, like Moses’ people, then, let me tell you, you’re pretty fucking sick of Aron and Ben, who’ve got a much smarter tent than anybody else, a great social life and always cook the most amazing food.  You want those fuckers to die, even before you’ve had to listen ‘Coat of many colours’ 5 times a day for 12,000 fucking days!

If you think every word of mine is divine unbreakable law, as applicable to modern day Ireland as it was to an Iron Age desert tribe then good on you, that’s a real ego boost for me, and you can be sure that I’m not going to hold a couple of tattoos, hair-cuts, pork sausages and non-Kosher nibbles against you personally, right?  That would make me some sort of vengeful God, and I’d have been sure to mention that somewhere.

I don’t like to speak ill of the dead (mainly because they’re all over the place up here), but I can’t help feel that Jesus attracted entirely the wrong sort of people.  He thought that all of my rules were old hat (2,000 years ago, people – that’s how long ago they were past their shelf life!) and went with the simplest message he could, “Love everyone”.  It takes a special kind of person to see that message and think, “He’s right! I should love everyone! Man, those gays are going to burn in hell!”

Which, I suppose, is my way of telling those of you who can vote to vote ‘Yes’ today.  Go on, do it, and I promise the next lot of commandments will pay special attention to people who always drive in the outside lane.

Yours faithfully,

YHWH

Spoiler Warning: The following post contains spoilers for Mad Max: Fury Road, but almost all of them are made up. I mean, how do you spoil a film that’s one long car-chase? I could tell you that Max doesn’t get killed, but as you probably already know that Tom Hardy has signed up for 2 more Mad Max films you must have guessed that.  Unless they’re going to be prequels, of course…because if one thing says ‘best instalment of the franchise’ it’s the word ‘prequel’.  There, I’ve spoiled prequels for you forever.

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A men’s right web-site, The Fellows of the Ring, has attracted a disproportionate amount of attention this week for claiming that the new Mad Max film, Fury Road, is feminist propaganda based on:

1. Not watching the film,
2. Hearing that the female lead speaks more than the male lead, and
3. Why did she have to leave me?  The bitch!

If the author of the FotR piece had seen the film they’d have discovered that it’s a masterpiece not of feminism, but of meninism.

The standard trope of action films is that the male and female leads start off hating each other, but over the course of the film she wins him over with her feminine wiles and boobs.  Sure enough, when Max and Furiosa first meet they fight, then they learn to work together and, by the end of the film, Max…well, Max gives her a casual wave and leaves her to it.  Preferring to leave her than have to hang around her in literally the only place for hundreds of miles that has any water, fuel or people who don’t want to kill him.

Why?  Why does Max turn away from Furiosa.  It’s because Furiosa is a man, and not a woman – as the feminists are claiming.  How do we know this?  Well, Mad Max is a film that’s all about subtly and context, so let’s look at the evidence:

1. Furiosa is really good at fighting – a boy thing.
2. ‘She’ can also drive really well (although, to be fair, we never get to see her reverse or parallel park)
3. ‘She’ is markedly different from the other women in the film who either (a) dress themselves from the net curtain aisle and sit around quietly, doing what they’re told, or (b) sit around with their massive tits hooked up to milking machines.
4. In fact, it’s never even made clear if she has boobs at all.
5. Furiosa is Immortan Joe’s right-hand-man, a point underlined by ‘her’ literally not having a left-hand at all.
6. ‘She’ is played by an actor called Charlie.
7. ‘Her’ motivation for the first half of the film is getting back to her mother, just like I had to when that bitch left me a took everything.  The fucking, fucking bitch!

What this film is about is two men helping each other out, in a manly way, doing manly things and then sharing a blokish, “Cheers, mate,”, “No worries, see you,” at the end.

Ignore any nonsense you hear about this film being feminist, go and see it and enjoy manly things; fast driving, fighting and accidentally spraying your teeth silver because you had a couple of beers when you were tidying up the ol’ Mondeo.  This is a triumph of maninism, made all the sweeter by tricking the feminists into watching it.

As dawn travels Westward it carries with it a wave, millions of people strong, of those waking to find that today there is an inexplicable emptiness in their hearts.  A mere few thousand of them, the world’s squarest inner circle, understand that it is because Twitter has taken Balustrade Lanyard from us and left only , “The profile you are trying to view has been suspended,” in his wake.

The out-pouring of grief-stricken tweets (greets) has led many to ask, “Who was Balustrade Lanyard?”

He was the man who thought what we were feeling, felt what we were hearing, said what we were sensing, dreamt what we were seeing and led us to places that we thought we might have been to before, possibly, didn’t there used to be a bookies here?

Already it is becoming impossible to separate the man from the myth.  While some argue that there was only ever one photo of him others now say that any photo taken of him became the iconic, one and that no other image could be captured. His face is said to have appeared baked into the crust of every loaf of bread on sale in Greggs this morning and his trademark flag can sometimes be glimpsed in the background of photographs of Benjamin Netanyahu. A rumour is circulating that he has been suspended for writing every possible tweet, so that he knew how this whole social media thing would end.

All we know for sure is that, whenever an overly-serious man pokes a flag through decorative railings Balustrade Lanyard shall be with him, and with us all.

“My father’s house has many rooms, even one with a pool table.”

– Balustrade Lanyard

With one week to go until the Queen’s speech the most talked about policy is undoubtedly David Cameron’s plan to remove the UK from the Eurovision contest and replace it with a ‘Britvision’, which the PM hopes will end European judges being able to overrule British ones with regards to the crappiness of British songs.

Mr Cameron’s plan has a great deal of support from the majority of the easy-read newspapers and the articles he e-mails to The Daily Telegraph and he doubtless believes that he is preserving Britain’s great musical tradition, which stretches all of the way back to the founding of The Status Quo in 1215.

He has however attracted criticism from the pro-European wing of his party, lefties, lawyers, Bucks Fizz fans and those who say that Gove’s experience as a journalist and owner of Guitar Hero on the Playstation don’t equip him for the task in hand.  It is certainly the case that the long-await Britvision rules, started by Chris Grayling in 2012 after an all-night session on Sing Star, have yet to be published.  It’s unclear at this stage whether the Prime Minister’s intention is for Britain to withdraw from Eurovision altogether, or to compete on its own terms under a scheme where only the British judges can vote on British entries.  As political blogger Darren, 8, from Hounslow, points out, “If only the Brit judges cn vote for us we can’t not get enough points to win will we?” – a question Mr Cameron has yet to answer.

Nor is it certain that Westminster can force Scotland and Northern Ireland to drop out of the Eurovision.  The Good Friday Agreement guarantees Gerry Adams a place in the UK short-list, although, to date, his cover version of the Sex Pistol’s God save the Queen has not been chosen as the UK entry.  Additionally the Scottish Parliament have already stated that they would like the opportunity to enter Andy Murray into the contest, representing only Scotland, just as he does when losing at tennis.

And this is before we consider possible House of Lords opposition to the plan, with rumours that Dame Sandie of Shaw intends to delay any Britvision bill for as long as possible.

All in it’s hard to reach any conclusion other than Mr Cameron has handed Michael Gove a poisoned chalice.  Mr Gove’s office seems up-beat about the situation, “Poisoned chalice?” they commented, “That’s a great name for a song! Have you seen our copy of Guitar Hero?”

Hi, nice to meet you, I’m the new leader of the Labour party.  You’ll be hearing a lot more from me over the next few years, but if I may I’d like 5 minutes to talk now, before it all kicks off.

I expect you want to know all about me.

Well, I’ve a working class background and I’m not one of these professional politicians, but I am a skilled communicator and debater who can handle a political party in the modern piranha pond of social media.

As a committed Blairite I’ll be taking the party back to the left, putting money into the NHS and the public sector, getting a fair deal for the working man and ensuring that nobody goes hungry or homeless in our country, but with an economic plan based on cutting the national deficit by lowering spending, not raising taxes.

I’ll be the first to admit that, in the past, Labour has overspent, but I will also be focussing on the future and not getting drawn into dwelling on historical mistakes.  I’ll be pushing to get the Chilcot report published immediately.

In Scotland I’ll be reaching out to the nationalists, looking to heal the divide that has grown between Scotland and England and in Westminster I’ll be making it clear that the Scots won’t be holding the reins in my government.  Just like the unions.

For the next General Election I’ll be telling the electorate, “A vote for anybody else is a vote for the Conservative party,” but I welcome the diversity that UKIP and the Greens have brought to UK politics and we’ll be sticking to our core value of inclusiveness by aiming our policies at them while making sure that Labour is not being dragged left and right by fringe groups.

We’ll welcome the valuable contribution that immigrant workers make, but make sure that there’s fewer of them anyway.

I will be looking straight at the camera and eating the bacon sandwich. None of this will be carved on a stone. Russell Brand can go fuck himself.

I hope I have your vote.

Dear so-called ‘Prime Minister’

Let me start by saying I did not vote for you and I remain confident that the current police investigation in South Thanet will uncover your vast web of electoral fraud and see you imprisoned as our rightful PM enters number 10 (I voted UKIP, and so did everybody I know!)

That said, my hearty congratulations on being returned as Prime Minister.  At least you’re not one of those bloody lefties! And, credit it where it’s due, you have started out by dealing with the four horsemen of the left-wing apocalypse, which have blighted English life since the days of Kier Hardie; Europe, unions, human rights and foxes. I wish you every success in assuring that these things are, respectively, left, broken, repealed and left broken and peeled.

Unfortunately myself and the 4 million others who voted UKIP are today reduced to watching some of our chaps deliver a petition to you, with the added humiliation of having to share the stage with those awful Scotch, the green Australian lady and the Welsh lass who used to do the numbers on Countdown, whilst begging you to bring in an electoral system that would be a lot worse for you and a lot better for us.  I don’t believe that even we in UKIP think that’s going to work, and we’re the ones who thought that banning puffs would reverse climate change.

What I’m asking is simply that you recognise that the 12% of the voters who voted UKIP account for 90% of the common sense in this country and heed us now when we warn you that a new and terrible evil is spreading like a plague over our fair nation. I refer, of course, to self-service checkouts in supermarkets.  These robotic demons came to us as friends and many, myself included, were initially delighted at the prospect of no longer having to suffer the indignity of horny-handed Romanian check-out girls carelessly fingering our peaches, but how maddening these so-called technological marvels have turned out to be.

Shopping with the so-called wife last week at one of the better supermarkets (one of the ones that doesn’t hand out free food to the scrounging immigrants at the food bank) we decided to try using one of these machines.  We may be in our 70s, but we consider ourselves to belong to the so-called ‘silver surfers’ and I’m a bit of a dab hand with those video-plus codes.  Not to bore you with the details, as you’re a busy man, but the argument about whether my Daily Express constituted an ‘unexpected item in the bagging area’ or not got me into such a tizz that several people, doubtless single-parents, complained about my language and then about my aggressive response to them and, in the end, I had to be removed from the shop by the Iranian doctor who collects in the trolleys.  As you can imagine this was an undignified situation for a golf club ex-president, such as myself.

Thus I find myself urging you, through the modern medium of the open letter, to focus not just on UKIP’s pre-election manifesto, but also to turn your Prime Ministerial eyes to getting rid of Morrison’s bloody self-so-called-service tills!

Yours, etc.