EVE PEEVED: Ooh wee! What a week! No sooner had me and Phillipa Chicken got back from the 'Stan (where, as you've probably read, we were go-go dancing for Travis as part of a Sun-sponsored "morale boosting" package also featuring Jim Davidson, Cradle Of Filth, Horsehead, Liberty X, Tool, Starsailor and Kitty) when we had to zoom of to darkest Oxfordshire where we were starring in a low-budget video for the single 'Die In America' by the punk band Neo.
More of that in later (especially the bit where our chopper got shot down over the Pakistan/Afghanistan border and Travis were about to be savagely gang-banged by a bomb-shocked mob of sex-starved gay-boy Talibanistas until Fran started crying and, out of sheer desperation started singing 'Why Does It Always Rain On Me?' which was like, so sad and beautiful that even the allegedly pop-hating Talis started crying as well and let us go - anus intacti.) But first, here's my new list of Stars I WILL Fuck.
1) Angus Dayton (girl's got to make a living)
2) Colonel Tim Chicken of the Royal Marines (he's got to be a virgin, right?)
3) Jack Osbourne (one suspects that Geeky Jack is hung like a mammoth!)
4) Beth Orton (the miserable cow - she needs cheering up)
5) Morrissey (with a pork dildo - I've always thought he looks as if he needed a bit of meat inside him)
6) Michael Eavis (mmm, that "lady pleaser" beard just sends me!)
7) R Kelly (hey, R, I'm legal!)
8) Stuart Cable from The Stereophonics (only joking, you ugly, shit-haired cunt!)
9) Gareth Gates ("I'm c-c-c-c-c-coming!" - he's so cute!)
10) Ben Elton (as in fuck you up the side of the head, ya Royal-cocksucking class-traitor bee-atch!)
So anyway, there we are in this fucking barn wearing Peter Hayes from Black Rebel Motorcycle Club masks and simulating sex with Zak - who as you probably know is Ozzy Osbourne's bad tempered Pomeranian lap dog and probably the most famous canine on TV this side of Eddie from Frasier.
Of course it wasn't really Ozzy's Pomeranian. It was a lookalike. Which pissed me off rotten.
"Look, do you know how much it would cost to hire the real Zak?" asked the director. 'Anyway, what are you girls doing after? I've got tickets to this music biz party if you're interested?"
"Maybe" pouted Phillipa. "Who's going to be there?". "Everyone" sneered the director, unashamedly staring at Phillipa's breasts. "It's kind of a New Acoustic Movement shindig. Badly Drawn Boy, Alfie, The Mull Historical Society, Turin Brakes - all that lot. It's to celebrate the release of the new Whispering Tim album - 'Shite is The New Good'.
Well how could we say no? The chance to shag an entire scene doesn't come along too often. Me and Phillipa have already "done" Shoegazing, Grebo, Grunge, The Scene With No Name, The Scene That Celebrates Itself, The Scene That Is Not A Scene, The Scene That Defines Itself Only In Relationship To Other Scenes and The New Rock'n'Roll - but so far the NAM boys have escaped our clutches.
So that's how we found ourselves under the arches down by the Embankment eagerly servicing a hollering, roaring mob of savagely pissed and raggedy arsed beardy-wierdies.
So anyway, I'm sat on top of this particularly pungent scruff when the penny drops. "Hang on!" I says and I whip me Lost Prophets logo-ed Zippo out of me handbag and give it a click so's I can have a closer look at my shaggee.
"You're not Badly Drawn Boy are you?"
"No"
'"You're just some smelly old tramp aren't you?" "Yes. Have you got ten pee for a cup of tea please, missus?"
Fuck! Turns out that it wasn't a Nam party after all! No, seems our Mr Whiz Kid video director chum was moonlighting as runner on a re-make of the Vincent Price classic 'Theatre Of Blood' and had been told by the director to round up a bunch of minging street drinkers, tramps, Big Issue sellers, homeless junkies and other Ian Brown lookalikes. And a couple of "slappers". For the "street-orgy" scene.
Bastard! That's the last time I'm falling for that little trick! Still, I bet the tramps were a better shag than the real Namsters, so winsome, lose some! (Geddit?)
TERENCE BULLSTRODE: If I can raise the tone a little - The good lady wife and I have recently moved to a pleasant Cotswold village (the name of which I withhold in order that it might remain pleasant and unspoilt). The local stock appears to be predominantly Saxon, although the elongated forehead of the Jute and the prehensile lower lip of the Dane are also apparent. However, this evidence of ancient miscegenation aside, it is a thoroughly English hamlet.
Indeed, the ancient pagan practices of our straw-blonde, watery blue eyed and thin lipped peasant ancestors still thrive in this "neck of the woods" (from the Norse "Nurja auf dem Wotan" - literally "Odin's toilet").
Just yesterday, for instance, we burnt the local policeman alive in a giant "wickerman". And next week the entire village plans to get ripped to the ruddy sunburnt tits on rough cider and snorted insecticide in preparation for "Allfuggentag" - an ancient local pageant (the name of which translates roughly as "Fuck Day").
This year, of course, the parish council (itself nothing more than a pale modern echo of the Saxon "parliament of shield-bearers") has decided to combine "Fuck Day" with the Golden Jubilee celebrations. And I have the honour of being this years "Summer Queen". This will involve my good self being forcibly held down by several sturdy farm hands (led by this year's honorary "Fuck God" - Mr Larry Hibbert from the pop band 100 Reasons) while copious amounts of liquidised "magic mushrooms" are forced into my stomach via a funnel and plunger. Then, dressed as Her Majesty, I will be buried face down in quick setting concrete. Breathing through a straw and hallucinating insanely, only my " rectus bono" (from the Latin for "short arse") will be visible above the concrete. And this exposed nether region will be topped with a "crown" made from locally grown bulrushes, nettles and oil-seed rape petals by the good ladies of the Womens Institute flower-arranging class Mr Rivers Cuomo of the pop band Weezer will declare my arse officially "open" and I will then be ritually sexually assaulted by the entire village. First will come the menfolk, wearing assorted animal "gimp" masks and with their huge hairy fists wrapped in barbed wire and well greased with pig dripping. Then the womenfolk, armed with rolling pins, power-tools and strap-on dildos. Next it is the turn of an assortment of local fauna - starting with the smallest (shrews, voles and suchlike) and finishing with Maurice, the shire horse stallion (I suppose I should count my blessings that no travelling circus has decided to visit our "locale" this year!)
My arse (or what is left of it) will then be cooked with a blowtorch and ritually "eaten" by Mr Keith Flint, the local "fuggentodt" (or "fuck head"). Who will then, in turn, be "blown away" by a visiting dignitary (yet to be decided, but we are hoping to get "Face" from the pop group So Solid Crew - fingers crossed!).
These celebrations are, I feel, quintessentially English and are a fine example of the sort of genuine countryside culture which uppengruppenfuhrer Tony Blair and his New Labour gay-mafia chums seem hell-bent on eradicating in their desperate Gestapo-like "jihad" to "culturally cleanse" the decent, fox-slaughtering, racist minority in this welfare-state crippled and Brussels-buggered country. No doubt if we had "modernised" Fuck Day - by incorporating Chinese Dragons, whirling dervishes, hollering "mullahs", rasta street-poets, Jamaican steel bands and a display of "bodybopping" by Mr Jay Kay of the "rap" band Jamiroqui - then we would be awash with subsidies from the infamous "Lotteries Commission". But as it is - determined not to pander to the forces of multiculturalism and homosexuality - we have managed to fund the festivities entirely through our own efforts (bring and buy sales, a village fete, a raffle, the selling of pig-worming pills as "ecstasy" at last year's Reading festival and an extremely well organised and amazingly lucrative armed raid on a bullion transfer at Luton airport).
Indeed, the whole enterprise is, one feels, a fine example of the "punk rock" spirit first given voice by Mr Johnny Rotten in 1977 (coincidentally the year of Her Majesty's Silver Jubilee) which shortly thereafter informed and inspired the glorious reign of our first and so far only punk-rock Prime Minister - Margaret Thatcher!
(thread terminated)
