spark up! has always stood firm as an unreserved proponent of freedom of expression (albeit largely for my own personal practition) and this most probably accounts for the frustrating fact that this blog has never made a single fucking penny - nevertheless, some bright tit in the editorial department has come up with the ripping ruse of giving the most downtrodden, vulnerable and oppressed in our society the opportunity to reply to establishment slurs and smear-campaigns...and then charging the poor blighters up for the privilege of accessing the hugely intellectual and influential spark up! audience...
...so without further ado, let me introduce our very first vict...sorry i mean guest...and the chap without a happy lot who's going to fill tonight's slot is the well-fitted-up former secretary of state for international despoilment, government chief blip, and current member of parliament for scrotum collarfield, mr randy "gnasher" switchell:
oh jolly good, may one commence wanting* now mr spark up? ok, ya, here goes...
well, the events in question took place on the evening of the 19th september last year...you see, after a hard day's graft whipping the old boys into anti-social action, i left my orifice in the palace of promise-and-political-perfection, as per normal...and had just perchanced to mount my rather prim-and-poofy old cambridge college bike, whom i affectionately call 'dave'...when i said to dave: "dave, my dear, do you wish to leave the palace of promise-and-political-perfection via the big-wide-black-easy-peasy main square gate or via the tight-little-pain-in-the-arse-iggerly-fidderly footmen's rectangular side-gate"...and, blinking up at me with those incredulously lashful lewd lamps of his, dave replied: "oh randy darling, do let's go through the big-wide-black-easy-peasy main square gate to which we are so arrogantly and aloofly accustomed...i do so love going through the big-wide-black-easy-peasy main square gate, it makes me feel so mmm...you know...very important...and on-tops, i don't want you getting-off prematurely before we reach our snuggly-buggly home-sweet-home-from-home"...and hence, not wishing to disappoint dave by slipping out of the palace of promise-and-political-perfection via the tight-little-pain-in-the-arse-iggerly-fidderly footmen's rectangular side-gate and then getting-off prematurely in the prurient presence of members of the voting public, i duly proceeded, perched astride dave, in an east-south-easterly direction towards well-wicked whitehaul and the wild-willie-wanton-wonderland of do-as-one-damn-well-pleases...now, standing before the big-wide-black-easy-peasy main square gate (and freedom to do all those naughty nasty nymphotic things we so wanted to) stood the law...and so i boldy approached and said to the law: "please oh please may dearest dave and i leave the palace of promise-and-political-perfection via the big-wide-black-easy-peasy main square gate to which we are both so arrogantly and aloofly accustomed"...and the law (whose name began with a 'b' and whose bonce was amply appointed with brazen beruffled blond hair and perniciously punctuated with a brace of beady blue button-like eyes) said unto me "no, not now, buzz orff and use the bleedin' pleb-gate like every-bugger-else you bloody barefaced bourgeois bumboy and watch you don't ride that crappy-creaking-old-clapped-out contraption on the pavement, or i'll have you banged-up in belgravia beastall before you can say 'nick robinson'"...
...good grief, as you can no doubt imagine, i was flummoxed, flabbergasted and flaming-well flipped...and, mindful of the irreversible emotional damage which could have been visited upon dave's tender feelings, i set most assiduously to verbally accosting the law in somewhat uncertain but nonetheless copiously colourful terms...and, as luck would have it, the law did indeed threaten to apprehend me upon that very specifical spot, and was on the brimming brink of impounding my dearest darling dave in the deep-dark-dank shed of no-electoral-return, when i began pleading for judicial clemency so profusely, politely and with such persistent plaintive, nay boot-slobbering-and-grovelling, pathos that the law, instead, produced from his bulging breeches-pocket an enormous great lead-pencil, with which he thankfully did not batter me, but pointedly and industriously began to inscribe, upon a long-long-long strong scroll of standard-issue civil-service lavatory-paper, the exact tempestuous tirade of unexpurgated excited expletives which had recently spewed so reflexively and incriminatingly from my unwittingly licentious lips...and then it did happen...the grievous gravity of the matter-in-hand exploded across the horizon of my consciousness, flashing and crashing like a sterilizing thunderbolt through the unrevealed future of my costly pre-washed curriculum vitae...and before i even became aware of the action, my fingers were tip-tip-tapping out a desperate distress-tune on a blue-rinsed blackberry, hastily yet somehow instinctively making conservative arrangements for an unmarked brown van to pull up smartish outside the exclusive private pimlico residence of saint bernard shagun-ho, in order to discreetly deliver a suitcase jammed full of untraceable fifty-note bills accompanied by the massed bare-boobies of the brazilian women's rugby union squad, all tastefully topped-off with a bursting bin-liner of finest white colombian coco...and i truly believe that this assorted box of sweeties did do the desired trick...for the law, as if deferring to an unseen providential power from above, stayed his enormous great big leaden pencil and abruptly employed the rubber adorning its elevated extremity to erase the jaw-dropping job-stopping 'p'-word, which i had so rawly and recklessly ejaculated...charitably changing it from a crude farmyard four-letter form...to a five-letter latin noun abbreviated in the plural...proving beyond any unreasonable doubt that the official record of the accidental ad-hoc meeting was in truth of fact altered by the law...and that, equipped with a fully-loaded classical education, our own profoundly diplomatic protection group is a force with which to be reckoned around the world...
...ergo, forthwith and without additional ceremony, whilst dave was being duly relieved of his puny pneumatic pump, i was routinely frisked then fleeced of my wallet, cash, cards and spanking-new phone...and feeling owed some manner of salutary explanation following this cruel, yet oddly cathartic episode, i turned to the law and enquired: "everyone desires to escape to well-wicked whitehaul and the wild-willie-wanton-wonderland of do-as-one-damn-well-pleases, so how is it that in all these years no-one else has demanded to exit this way?" the law saw that i was dying to get out of the palace of promise-and-political-perfection, and, to afford me as brief an answer as was professionally possible bawled: "no-one else insists on leaving through here, since this gate was designed especially for you two. i’m now going to open it - so fuck off you pair of batty bent brainless bastards and don't come back until the british people have balloted to remove your butts, belongings and berkshire bullshit, you clueless class-corrupted conniving cunts"...
...and accordingly, i hurried straight home to oil poor dave's rusty rear sprocket.
[*roughly translated from the now largely obscure eaton-cheese dialect, this means 'ranting' - for ease of reading, the remainder of this passage has been pre-interpreted by the spark up! editorial staff.]
20 comments:
the upshot of being schadenfrolically gangbanged by rudyard kipling, franz kafka, anthony burgess, together with a select number of the carry on team, is that spark up! has given birth to a chillingly chaotic weave of chimaeric writing the effects of which we will struggle to come to terms for years to come, stalking as it undoubtedly will the dark back-doubles of cyberspace, frightening young children and sending cute little furry animals scurrying to the comforting sanctuary of their nearby gemütlich nest-holes.
although i'm merely a lowly footsoldier for the evil effete emperors which rule over earth, at least i'm a soldier in a place where there's actually a war going orff...unlike sergeant-major mitchell, who was basically a souped-up lifeguard for the beaches of cyprus. yes, my own rôle is invaluable - i act as a dozy baredevil decoy, distracting the taliban, press and public's attention whilst the other guys get on with the really dirty business that needs doing about the globe. it is a bit dangerous 'tho.
kooky kate's also done her bit for the firm's counter-public-intelligence campaign, primarily by getting her baps out for the froggies, and granny was quite pleased with royalties she got too.
i think i've been jolly brave really - i've been a guerilla in the secret struggle against taxation, i've liberated coco from unhealthily heavy-duties in ghana, i've helped develop new borders for african countries which can show me a good...err willing and responsive attititude to mature international relations, and, acting as shagow international development secretary, i feel that my previous ideologically-driven work getting girls into bed in the horn of africa and other third-world hot-spots compares very favourably with hotshot hal's record.
...and i can personally vouch for the fact that, in his capacity as our local mp, mr switchell has always been unstinting in his habit of donating his time and energies to promoting local girl guide associations.
this blog-interview and attached comments are all very amusing, but we must recognize that "shagger" switchell was the downing street lynchpin in a cia operation to take control of a rich mining region in congo - bill and the cia funded the last great white investment initiative in 1998 and the clintons cleaned-up (about 5 million african lives plus enough dosh to finance hilary clinton's first, ultimately unsuccessful, bid for the american presidency); obama got a slice of the wealth of bloody origin too, but now it's hawkeye hilary who really needs the loot - to boost the swag-bag for her next obsessional attempt to secure herself a place in human history (as the biggest bitch ever to get her hands on those curiously phallic levers of power).
cameron and co's neo-colonialist crimes stretching from congo to ivory coast to mali to libya to somalia through to palestine, syria and afghanistan have brought disgrace upon the british nation - yet mister ed immigrant-basher miliband has remained silent-as-stone on the subject of our government's foreign militaristic outrages, probably because he and his party have never, by properly apologizing, taken full responsibility for their own terror wars in afghanistan and iraq; the prime minister and the bar of soft squidgy soap which passes for the leader of the opposition should both fuck off to the sahara and live on a sand-dune - one can build castles out of it, whilst the other can stick 'is 'ed in it.
it was david wot made me do it
i'm getting all confused about this whole business...what i want to know is: what's europe's underbelly doing on mali? have we put a towel down? and did we get our jabs?
well, you see i put my head in the lion's mouth to see if there was anything in there worth ripping off, and at the same time i stuffed a fucking great thistle up the beast's arse; i was a bit miffed when the cunt chomped me off at the neck, and so were my friends - now i hear they've organized a big hunting party to teach this abominable al qaeda-affiliated animal some proper english manners and recover my gold teeth from the steaming trail of dudu deposits.
yes, the "war on sand" will certainly prove particularly interesting from a military-strategy standpoint - i expect the british prime minister, mr canute, and emperor hoglande of france will give the stuff a damn good kicking, whilst the first african-american president of the united states, mr obomba, looks on from a safe distance, chipping in with nuggets of banging advice and providing all the intelligence needed for the operation.
marionettes manipulated by marionettes all controlled by the machiavellian master puppeteer. i announce aggressive foreign policy from the topmost tower of the bbc, then cameron just forms it.
clearly the main question preying on everybody's mind is: did the pres lip-sync his inauguration speech?
i think you're attempting to divert attention away from the real focal points of the matter under examination, darling.
and didn't the draculess of state look great on the tv today - boosting the diet with supplements of over-critical-virgin-interns' blood obviously works a treat...
...the funny thing is though, i've never seen desert-island discs televized before...?
the opposition definitely takes european control of africa as read, but has nevertheless been rigorous in voicing its concerns over the military operation in mali - it seems the predominant fault-line in opinion revolves around the number of bullets our boys can afford to fire into africans should the need arise.
23 January 2013 18:16
elementary my dear madam: the dubbed voice-over was pitching at least two tones lower than my husband's...mmmmmm
...i guess the old hag is just itching to get into office...prrrrrr
...must give her a call about borrowing some more of that deep-red organic dye for the new ballgown...
hey spark up, why don't you rework thomas mann's the magic mountain into a contemporary allegory of the way the wise and wealthy gather at davos to receive from on high pronouncements upon the due and devout diagnosis of societal decadence?
i have been posted a pile of complaints concerning the correct formation of madame le boobounceur's surname - yet if madame's name had alternatively been 'lebrun', for example, no queries whatsoever would have arrived, because family names obviously don't modify, and in any case, it's all of no particular importance, as this kind of petty pedantic grammatical point only irritates the anal post-colonial sensitivities of the control-obsessed french, who don't really matter anyway.
yes, that's how i recall hearing it exactly...hillary on vocals with "the pres" performing a bright and chirpy rendition of mozart's rondo "alla turca" from the wings on an old upright.
did ed miliband write this blogpost?
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