The Jubilee

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A Jubilee conjures fruitful imagery of hearty food, patriotic anthems and family bonding. It’s a time in the British calendar where communities are invited, from far and wide, to enjoy each other’s company and acknowledge what it means to be a part of this great and bountiful country. So it’s only natural that everyone is pegging it to mainland Europe. The Independent reports that over 6 million will scarper England in favour for socks and sandals, sun burn and alcohol-bloated jowls. Ever the colonisers, Brits are targeting Greece and Spain in particular to exploit the Euro like an 18th century African child servant.

For those remaining in Blighty, lock your doors. Draw your curtains. Hide your prepubescent boys because “young sailors in naval uniform” are roaming the capital. The YMCA are coming and they’re coming profusely: 60 guns strong. Although the ceremonial training officer has expressed a fear of them “peaking too early” after the practice salute. I’m sure the Queen won’t mind; her and Prince Philip are increasingly tolerant of short performances as the years wear by.

@thestormyblonde

 

 

Barcelona

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“Ooh ah, Barcelona, ooh ah Barcelona. Ooh ah, Barcelona, ooh ah Barce-”

Shut the fuck up before I mash you in the face with my vitamin D-deprived fist of fury. We are not going to Zante, or Kavos, or some other alcohol drenched cesspit. This is not ‘Lads on Tour’, or ‘Ladies on da Pull’, or any other headline suggesting the congealment of young pond feeding degenerates. We are going to Barcelona: this is Spain: apply dignity like SPF factor 50 or I will burn a hole through the stamps on your passport. Every single none of them.

Although I fall into the demographic of a young hoodlum, my sensibilities lie firmly within the realm of maturity and respect. I craved peace, culture and enough sangria to tranquilize a small mammoth, from my holiday. None of this ‘urinating in the streets because no one knows who I am’ malarkey.

My comrades – Devonshire Cow and Reginald Mouth – were like minded. Together we embarked on a campaign of cultural insensitivity and accidental self-endangerment under the banner of ‘British Tourists’. I could wax poetical about the sunlight mirage at Sagrada Familia, marine undulations at Port Vell and hypnotic Catholic chants in Santa Maria del Mar. I could gush about the tangible insight of Picasso and rustic beauty of Passeig de Gracia. Perhaps I could even comment on the Metro system’s outstanding air conditioning. I could. But that would be shit boring compared to the moment of extreme tension in the Parc Guell toilets where the toilet roll ran out. Or the moment of extreme tension when the toilet roll ran out at Ciutadella. Or when, on La Rambla, all three of us needed to use the toilet at once and we didn’t know what to do.  I almost got ran over because the toilets were on the other side of a restaurant. A Barcelona-wide street hunt for churros had to be suspended in favour of toilets. There were no toilets at the Erotica Museum so we left a bit early. Then, at the airport, we almost missed our flight because Devonshire Cow needed the toilet.

We were mature and respectful. None of this ‘urinating in the streets because no one knows who we are’ malarkey.

 

Britain’s Got Talent?

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I went to the hospital today because I wanted to see the surgeons gliding around with rock hard abdominals, chiseled jaw lines and hair that flops over their misty eyes. I nearly fainted. My grandmother collapsed too, but it turns out she’s got a heart problem or something.

This got me thinking about other people who belong in a ward. I concluded that those jumped-up monkeys on Britain’s Got Talent need therapy. The contestants shouldn’t listen to their opinions. What a bunch of festering retards. But i’ll talk about the audience another day.

You’ve got Simon Cowell, Amanda Holden, Simon Cowell’s wife and Alesha Dixon. She tries to look all pink and perky like Cheryl Cole but you, Mr Walliams, are not fooling anyone. I want to stomp on your shiny forehead. Your amicable demeanor and open countenance remind me of my gran, and look where it got her. If I wanted to watch kind and generous people with charming smiles give members of the British nation a sense of purpose I would just flick on an Oxfam advert.

I expect brutal and cut-throat judgement in my reality TV. I crave callous remarks that eviscerate peoples’ dreams into bloodied shreds, leaving them broken and defeated human beings. Alesha Dixon, those judges on Strictly must’ve really done a number on you. There is no plausible reason why you would wriggle in your chair like a disabled Parkinson’s patient every night, heaping praise upon people who are clearly doomed to remain working in their local community centre. “That was so good Jonny, so so good, only next time, try not to drop the guillotine on your assistant’s head before the safety catch is on. Apart from that, you’re a star in the making.”

And Amanda Holden. Just sleep with him already. The sexual tension between you both is sickeningly palpable. I’m sure Mr Cowell would oblige; his charitable acts are internationally renowned.

 

Mid Term Elections

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Ed Miliband today declared that Labour was “winning back people’s trust” after a night of big gains in mid-term local elections across the country. A comparison can be made to the way a baby feels after being dropped, picked up, and then hurled from the windows of 10 Downing Street.

A senior Labour source said the leader wanted to show he recognised the need to reach out to voters who have yet to place their trust in him. “Michael Jackson had it right when he waved his baby out of the window.  The United Kingdom might be mashed to a pulp on the economic pavement, but we want to reverse that. We want to throw Michael Jackson’s baby up back into the window of financial security.”

Liberal Democrat leader Nick Clegg said he was “really sad” at his party’s results but insisted they would “continue to play [their] role” in Government, starting with the distribution of 200 ball gags around prominent constituencies. Clegg himself intends to stand at the forefront by investing £3000 of the taxpayers’ money in a skin tight leather suit with a chain attached to David Cameron’s pimp ring. “It’s important that the public know where we stand”.

In other news, an albino gorilla has been seen lurching through the streets of London with a huge grin on his face. Ken Livingstone is reported to be “unamused” by his Conservative competitor’s  pre-victory glee during the fight for Mayor.