Remember, the same people who tonight say "Get it down, it'll do you good," will tomorrow be the ones saying, "Get it up, you'll feel better."

As the world braces itself for an upsurge in terrorist activity in the wake of the Islamabad assassination with television and the press focusing on events there we are the first to bring news of a terrifying new generation of terror weapons that can bring the activities of groups President Bush has described as “evil doors and people of Evelyn Tent” right into our comfortable, safe suburban lives. Useless Gadgets of Mass Destruction pose a clear and present danger to us all.
The first incident in which one of these devices was used to attack innocent middle class people took place in Southampton when at an informal Christmas gathering an Improvised Explosive Fondue Set exploded causing numerous cheese sauce related injuries.
Senior figure in the security forces warned there will be more such attacks.
“This is just the beginning,” Maj. C. Lee Farquhar told a Boggart Blog reporter, “we in the security services expect to see more attacks involving seemingly innocent domestic appliances. Our intelligence sources tell us terror groups already have deep fat fryers of mass destruction and booby – trapped Breville sandwich toasters. We suspect Al Qaeda are close to developing a dirty – fat bomb which will spread a fine mist of hydrogenated vegetable oil over heavily populated areas.”
In a new video message from Al Qaeda headquarters Osama Bin Laden spoke of a Jihadist rocket science cell who, in their secret laboratory in the empty magma chamber of an extinct volcano have developed attack droids by implanting the genetic information from killer beasts into the microprocessors of small appliances. Bin Laden claimed they have successfully grafted the instincts of a Pirhana into a food blender and created a man eating Lean-Mean-Grilling-Machine by implanting the genes from a crocodile and Mike Tyson.
The message indicated these killer appliances are already in Western shops.
As we wrap up this bulletin, a news is breaking of another attack. We hear a suicide slow cooker being used in a snack van in London’s Leicester Square has exploded near people queuing for the January sales, showering thousands with hot soup.

MORE new humour every day from Boggart Blog

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It may be in rather bad taste to mention this – but when has that ever stopped us?
We could not help noticing a sub-healine to on of the reports of the assassination of Benhazir Bhutto read “Pakistan’s security forces think the killers may never be caught”.
As the attack was carried out by suicide bombers that statement falls into the No Shit Sherlock school of criminal investigation.

What the Dickens

While lurking in a disused culvert in Clerkenwell, London, a few years ago Jenny Greenteeth discovered a sealed box which contained a fragment of a previously unknown masterpiece by Charles Dickens. The work, the story of Oliver Nickelfield, surpasses all his others in its inventiveness and use of silly names.

Unfortunately we only have one extract plus Dickens' notes on what had happened in previous chapters.

In the first part of What the Dickens, Oliver Nicklefield, heir to a substantial fortune and his father's egg pickling business is orphaned when his flaky mother dies suddenly following a visit by the family physician Dr. Mordaunt. Chapter two sees Oliver taken in by his greedy step - uncle Grasper Pickweasel and sent as a boarder to Noynces Academy, run by the nightmarish Pervisal Noynce. After six weeks working on a treadmill to help him learn the multiplication tables Oliver runs away.....now read on:

Episode 3 - London

Oliver had walked for several days without food and with only ditchwater to drink when he came to a great city where the busy streets rang with the noise of horse drawn vehicles, the din of factories competed with the lusty cries of Costermongers, the air smelled of pies, sausages, bread, mature cheeses, mature clothing, the perfume of fashionable ladies who walked around saying "give you a good time for tuppence - farthing duckie", rotting fruit and stale urine. Weak with hunger and intoxicated by the smells Oliver collapsed in the middle of the crowd. Minutes later a large wart with a nose on the end of it materialised above the boy as consciousness returned.

"Allow me to hintroduce myself young sir, my name is Ordurebeezer Sloppyplopp of Sloppyplopp and Squitter (deceased), Suppliers of Garden Products to the gentry. Indeed sir, I am purveyor of poo, merchant of muck, jobber of jobbies, huckster of horseplopp, in short a fertilizer factor. May I present also my dear lady wife Mrs Sloppyplopp. You may believe me or believe me not young sir, but this fair and delicate creature is the finest extricator of horsedoo between Romford and Uxbridge."

"Pleaseded t' make y'r 'quaintance I'm sure." growled an indescribably ugly, red faced woman who carried a bucket of fresh steaming dung in each coarse hand.

Oliver smiled wanly and greeted the woman who said "Begging yer pardon sir, can't stay. There comes a brewers dray pulled by a pair of the best fed shires as you'd ivver wish to clap eyes hon."
And with that she scurried away to scare the horses shitless.

"That is my beloved for you, young sir," Sloppyplopp beamed. "A beauty as would turn many a noble 'ead in 'igh society and yet totally dedicated to her 'umble profession. and such a high skill 'as she developed that the mere sight of her fair face can henchant any beast of the equine nature so as it hevacuates hitself at her bidding. She his a 'orse laxator. They say 'tis a skill learned from the Gypsies, oh yes, and many a 'orse trainer would pay 'ansomely to learn it I daresay."

A few yards away the mighty horses were rearing and rolling their eyes as Mrs Sloppyplopp contorted her features at them.

Oliver had only time to introduce himself when his benefactor noticed the beasts had evacuated fully and the man hurried towards his wife with two empty pails. "Mr Sloppyplopp sir," the boy called out, you have no shovel."

"A shovel my fine fellow, A hiron shovel?" The shitschlepper turned, shocked. "We durst not touch such a precious horganic lode with a hiron shovel sir. Oh; the smelting of hiron is a foul business, foul sir, and it produces multitudinousinous toxical substances the likes of which cannot be found in nature young sir, nor hindeed even be purchased on a downtown streetcorner . No sir, our good 'ands is all we needs, our 'ands and stout pails made with wood took from finest sherry - wine casks. A horganic business we are Holiver my fine fellow. The gentlefolk of 'ighgate and Sint John's Wood pays 'andsome for horganic. Now I must assist my beloved and then you shall come to our 'umble 'ome and have some 'earty soup with 'ome made bread and p'raps a sup of gin if some is to be 'ad.

Oliver's empty stomach retched as the dray horses shat copiously and his new friends stooped to fill their buckets.

*

"Gone! Gone you say? The boy has gone Noynce? Did I not tell you the boy was good for nothing, nothing sir, and now what's to be done hm, hmm? What if he should survive as a vagabond and later come to claim his inh-er, an interest in my business. The ingrate, the whelp of a dilettante who ruined, ruined the profitable egg - pickling business our dear father left him. I shall hold you responsible sir, responsible I say, and have you rogered with the blunt end of the school bell if you do not bring him back here and fulfil your part of our bargain."

Master Pervisal Noynce; M.A. Cantab, cringed before the fury of Grasper Pickweasel. Noynce was a small, stooped man, his clothes were dusty as was his sparse hair and a thick coating of grey - green lichen covered his few unevenly spaced teeth.

"Are you suggesting murder Mr Pickweasel?" Noynce's voice was reedy and weak, a voice that was made to snivel. "Murder Mr Pickewaesel is not on our curriculum and as an extra mural activity commands a substantial additional fee."

"Are you trying to blackmail me Noynce. I never mentioned murder. Plenty of boys from your academy run away and turn up drowned in the surrounding marshes."

The two men were arguing in the study of a bleak house that looked out across the blighted landscape of the Essex marshes and now the teacher backed away as Pickweasel raised his cane to point at the featureless mud flats and reed beds criss crossed by small creeks. "Did I mention murder Noynce? But if an inconvenient child were to run away and get stranded on one of those mud banks by the rising tide who would question it, whether he was the bastard of some incautious nobleman or the greedy little runt of a dandified pickled egg merchant who wants to cheat me out of the estate that is my rightful inherit but was given to his wastrel father.

Noynce tried to argue that all the boy wanted was a start in life and anyway the inheritance was rightly his but to argue with Grasper Pickweasel was futile. The man's greed knew no bounds and when confronted with reason would simply point out that the course of action Noynce suggested would merely deprive some future chronicler of the chance to earn an honest penny by telling the terrible story. Sadly Noynce rang the large bell on his desk and summoned Ralph the school porter, a huge, fearsome former seaman whose tongue had been cut out by Moors when he insulted Allah and whose hairless scalp was tattooed with a miniature portrait of Ismbard Kingdom Brunel. Ralph would be sent to London to find and bring back the boy.

On returning with the Sloppyplopps to their home Oliver had fallen into a deep sleep from which he did not awake until the evening of the following day. As he sat on the pile of the sacks in which his host delivered garden fertilization products, the family were gathered for their daily meal. "Oliver my dear fellow, we thought you under a witches spell so long have you slept," the head of the house greeted him.

"Hindeed," said the wife, her voice like a rusty hinge, "Hi never knowed no-one what slept so long. Come up to the table and eat, you must be as 'ungry as a rat in a - well somewheres there hain't nothink even a rat would eat."

"Thank you, but I must go. for you have been so kind I cannot burden you with my misfortunes."

"Does our young friend not speak like a gent?" Three little Sloppyplopps nodded in response to their father's question.

"Then learn well my offsping, for it is not often that 'umble stevedores of shit the likes of us has the hopportunity to listen to such euphonious grammatification. And pray Holiver tell us of your troubles for even the most dire tale of hadverse circumstance cannot bring discord to the 'armony of your syntax."

Between mouthfuls of soup and bread Oliver told of his mother's mysterious death and of how his uncle had mislaid the will. In the event of his sister's intesatacy Grapser Pickweasel became the boy's guardian and his sister's sole beneficiary. Oliver had overheard his step - uncle talking of his disposability to the schoolmaster and suspected a plot to misplace his earthly remains after first turning his very much alive body into earthly remains. He told of the foul conditions endured by inmates of Noynces Academy for the embarrassingly illegitimate offspring of gentlemen and of the punishments meted out by the fearsome Ralph while Pervisal Noynce casually looked on, a hand always in his pocket, counting his small change.

"And so," he concluded "I cannot impose upon you any longer for my uncle and Mr Noynce will surely send Ralph to find me and bring me back. No I must find my Aunt, Trotsy Smallprice who is a formidable woman."

"No, no my dear Holiver, you must stay 'ere." Ordurebeezer declared, "they shan't never take you back while I have a breath left. No, you shall be safe here, among the filth of these insanitary streets, harboured by the common people what looks after their own and sticks together through thick and thin while I, Ordurebeezer Sloppyplopp will find Miss Smallprice and bring her to you."

"Oh Holiver, such a terrible tale, and you a young genkleman, but you are safe here if I has to fight the divil himself" Mrs Sloppyplopp declared, large tears streaming down her pitted cheeks and dangling precariously from her chin before dripping onto her dress.

"I believe you would too." said Oliver thinking that not even Ralph could look into that face without flinching. "and by the way I must thank you, that was quite the best brown bread I have ever tasted.

"Brown bread? Oh Oliver dearest, how little you know of our poor lives. Brown Bread ain't for the likes of us, oh no. That was common white bread but what with it being the Lord Mayor's parade today and our busiest shit picking day of the year I quite forgot to go to the pump and wash afore setting to my baking."

Embarrassed the woman hid her stained hands under the grey apron. Oliver was about to assure Mrs Sloppyplopp that the bread was excellent anyway when there was a loud banging on the door.

"Rrrrrralph" exclaimed the boy in panic.

Ordurebeezer put a kindly hand on his protege's shoulder. "I 'spect its the smell old chap, you gets used to it in a few days but try to hold on to your lunch. The likes of us don't see so much solid food we can afford to spray it around.

IN THE NEXT episode: Oliver sets out in search of the elusive Trotsy Smallprice and the Sloppyplopps confront Ralph

BOGGART BLOG is taking a break but will be back after Christmas with more original humour.

OK you're thinking, this is Boggart Blog, youre thinking, there has to be a twist here, surely Jenny Greenteeth, Ian, fatsally and the crew have not gone all Jesusy on us? Well we did say the TRUE saviour...

On this, the Winter Solstice, the festival of the annual rebirth of the Sun King, the Green Man, whatever, it may seem strange that little ol’ pagan me is asking you to celebrate that other momentous midwinter birthday on December 25. Christmas Day is not course the birthday of Saturn, principal god of the Sol Invicta cult and of the Babylonian Sun God Marduk. But hey, no tricksy stuff, I want us all to celebrate Christmas Day for the fairy tale it has given us.
All over the world in Australia and New Zealand, in Japan, India, Africa, all around Europe, in Canada and across the U.S.A. true believers and music fans will come together to celebrate the Birth of our true Messiah. From L.A. to New York the Fairytale will be heard again.
December 25th you see is the birthday of the saviour of Christmas music.

Let us start the celebrations with a Christmas song.

God bless you drunks and drug addicts,
let nothing you dismay,
our saviour Shane MacGowan
was born on Christmas Day...

That should have got you in to the Christmas Spirit as we prepare to celebrate the fact that the manky mouthed one has achieved his own Christmas miracle by reaching the age of fifty.
I can’t tell you how much those of us who enjoy a modest wager wish we had got our bets down back in 1991 when Shane was sacked by the Pogues for excessive drinking and the bookies were willing to offer long odds against him reaching forty let alone fifty.
But no matter, we have Shane to thank for writing and recording the only decent Christmas song ever and thus saving us from the Satanic influence of Cliff Richard and his annual schlockfest Christmas single.
As Shane’s messianic credentials have increased so his teeth have become a shrine to believers. The doubters, the followers of false gods have tried to say this is entirely due to laxity in the dental hygiene department but this is a wicked calumny. Though never blessed with American style born again teeth, Shane sustained the worst damage to his while engaged in mortal combat with the American schmaltz demon. Convinced America was trying to smother the world in corn syrup, the Saviour tried to demonstrate the superiority of European culture by eating a Beach Boys album.
Now unbelievers, you have to admit only a divinely inspired nutter would pull as stunt like that.

Happy Birthday Shane, booze on. You may be in the gutter but we are looking at your star.

Shane on You Tube - Very Drunk

What a Wonderful World Nick Cave and Shane

An attempt in the BMJ to debunk some of the urban myths connected to healthy living. The researchers have taken seven oft repeated myths and set about to disprove them. Some of the myths seem downright ridiculous to me, fr'instance "eating turkey makes you drowsy" Would anyone really believe that? (HMMm yes, those people who weigh 22 stone and claim it's not overeating but something to do with their genes)It's not the turkey that makes you drowsy, it's probably a combination of an early morning - kids waking up at 3am shouting "He's been" or the need to get the 25lb turkey in the oven so it will be vaguely edible by 2.30pm - a large meal accompanied by copious amount of alcohol and the uter boredom of watching the christmas Day installment of Eastenders, Coronation Street and the best moments from "I'm an ex X-Factor contestant shoot me in the jungle."
Another urban myth that sets my teeth on edge, but which does not get a mention in the BMJ, is the DETOX syndrome. Why do people believe they have to recover from Christmas by drinking a litre of water every day for 10 days, eating beansprouts and alfalfa and avoiding red meat like the plague. Don't they realise that their liver is a highly efficient detox machine? Yes it may be overworked during the Christmas period, or at other times such as holidays, but as long as you are not downing a bottle of vodka before breakfast when you start on the hard stuff- aftershave, surgical alcohol or meths, whatever your favourite tipple is, then your liver will carry on doing its valiant job, 24/7 and all you need to do to be toxin free is not put anymore in there. It's not rocket science is it?

Busy day today - ah well, I'm out all day tomorrow. fatsally may keep you entetained if you leave her a few more comments.

In an entertainment hole last night we were forced to watch the 666th television adaptation of Oliver Twist. It was made worthwhile by Timothy Spall as Fagin and Rab C. Nesbit as Mr. Bumble and the fact that whenever anyone smiled their mouth looked like the outlet of a sewer. The only comic device as reliable as a fart gag (and there was one of those) is joke teeth.
But the script, which took several detours from Dickens’ original story, seemed familiar in quite a disturbing way, the depressed, downtrodden women, the pantomime gangsters and an archvillain so insipid he would not scare a kitten, surely the worst Bill Sykes in the history of Bill Sykes.
As we watched the opening shot, of a heavily pregnant, downtrodden looking girl staggering through bleak, filthy, rain lashed streets only to collapse at the Workhouse gate, I said to my wife, “Why are we watching East Enders?”

This morning I learned the adaptation is scripted by a regular writer on East Enders. Which just shows, you can take the story out of Walford but you can’t take Walford out of the story.

Reports that the new manager of the England football team cannot speak English have certainly would up the tabloids. More interesting though is his claim that being a quick learner he will be able to speak the native language of his team by the time he takes charge of the squad for the first time.
What’s the rush we wonder, if Signor Capello speaks The Queen’s English by then, he will be the only one there who does.
But how much English does a football manager need to speak? After all, people involved in sport are not noted for erudition. We suggest a few phrases that should be enough for Capello to get by on:

The boy done good,
He has run from midfield and split our defence,
It’s a game of two halves,
The boys giv’ ‘hundret and ten per cent,
The only way to win is by scoring more goals,
That penalty decision was a travesty,
Everyone could see it weren’t intentional.

Capello is not the first England manager unable to speak any English of course. Do we not like to remember Graham Taylor?

Just one question; why would anyone store anything relevant only to this country in a "secure facility" half way around the world? Is it a reciprocal agreement? Is there a warehouse somewhere in darkest Wolverhampton where sensitive information about US citizensis stored? Or is it that our authorities are so inept they just don't trust themselves with anything?
Boggart boggles, but if you think you know why then
Answers on a postcard, please, stating your name, address, date of birth, NI number, bank account details, your mother's maiden name and any significant dates you think might be of benefit to any identity thieves we may care to share it with.

A Santa in Edinburgh is refusing to wear a pillow beneath his tunic to create the traditional shape of Father Christmas the world over. He claims he is concerned about children's weight and thinks a fat Santa will encourage obesity as children will think it's ok for them to be fat too.
Boggart wonders if he is really cut out for the job. Does he worry about the image presented by a stranger who encourages children to sit on his knee in return for a cheap present, couldn't children be encouraged to talk to, and accept sweets, from strangers?
What does he think about people entering other people's houses in the dead of night and then going into the children's bedrooms?
And wouldn't the fact that Santa drinks a tot of whisky in every house he visits, just on the one night a year, add up to serious middle aged binge drinking? A really bad example to set the children.
Then, of course he is in charge of a vehicle whilst under the influence of alcohol.
Heaven knows what happens to those elves up there in the frozen wastes as they toil away 364 days a year getting all the presents ready for the little children. Do they get regular tea breaks, are they expected to work in hazardous coonditions, let's face it, it has to be slippy underfoot and reindeer bites could lead to infection.
Do they have healthcare and pension provision?
What kind of a man is this Santa claus?
I think, considering all of the above, the slimline Santa should probably hang up his beard, he'd be better suited to a position in government.

Best news story this week, a woman in Pennsylvania was hauled before the beak for swearing at her toilet when it became blocked.
An oversensitive neighbour overheard the outburst and feared local children might have been depraved and corrupted by hearing the kind of language they must surely hear in the schoolyard every day. The neighbour reported Dawn Herb to the police.
After receiving a visit from a police officer it seems Ms. Herb went round to the neighbour’s house and told that bitch-whore to mind her own fucking business. This resulted in another complaint and when the potty mouthed Miss Herb swore at the arresting officer it only made matters worse.
The case against dawn was dismissed however, the judge ruling that the original outburst in her own toilet was protected by the First Amendment, the clause in the American Constitution that safeguards the right to free speech.
Time we had our civil rights protected in the same way we say. If you can’t swear in your own fucking toilet where can you swear?

more humour from Boggart Blog every day.

A Somerfield store in Brighton has been banned from selling alcohol in May, when pupils are allegedly studying for and sitting GCSE examinations.
Pupils who take GCSEs are generally 16 years old, does this mean that all that legislation about having to have proof of your age if you look under 21 isn't working? Oh hang on, it's Brighton, I guess it's quite difficult to guess the age of teenagers when most of the population are over 65. (Sorry anybody under 65 who lives in Brighton, cheap dig.)
It does seem rather strange that the authorities choose this moment to come down so hard on teenage drinkers. How on earth will they get through those endless days on study leave, watching music videos all day without the aid of some liquid refreshment. How will they cope when they wake up in the morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed and see those stacks of books sitting reproachfully in the corner, at least when suffering from a hangover you can turn a blind eye.
If the authorities continue with this insane ban then I predict that depression amongst teenagers in the Brighton area will soar during May, GCSE results will plummet and most importantly Nisa, Alldays and Spar's profits will rise spectacularly along with their beer sales.

Pity the undead, not the creatures of Gothic fiction and Hammer Horror movies, but the real undead, those who simply do not know how to die. Age does not spare them its indignities and infirmity is their constant companion as they cling to a slender thread of life, unable to find the key that will open the door to admit them to the unexplored country from in whose bourne no traveller returns.
Where do they go, these stupendously decrepit individuals, how do Governments conceal their uneconomic non – existence from we who are constantly exhorted to labour and save in order the fund the growth the global economy needs?
The answer is they book cruises on the Cruiseship of Dead Dreams.
You or I could not pop into our local travel agent and say “I want a cruise on the Ship Of Dead Dreams, the counter staff who all undergo special training at the Russell Crowe Academy of Bad Acting, would effect unconvincing expressions of incredulity and deny the existence of such a ship.
“This is an urban myth,” they would protest, much as Jewish priests would deny the Merkabah, the fantasmagorical chariot in which Jehovah rides in the opening chapter of the Book of Ezekiel. This chariot whose wheels are rimmed with fire and spoked with four living creatures, a lion, a serpent, an eagle and a man circles the earth eternally carrying the sacred fire of God, just like the one created by Hermes Trismegistos to ferry the sun through the heavens. No wonder the Jews keep that quiet.
In the same way Simon Cowell suppresses knowledge of the Ship of Dead Dreams as it circumnavigates the globe bearing its cargo of the lost and the hopeless, the secret that the boring do not die bust simply pass on to a life of hellish blandness and mediocre music. You see the undead do not know how to die because they never truly lived. They are the people who spend Saturday nights electing the winners of television talent shows.
For their sins they are condemned to suffer being entertained by failed winners and defeated finalists of a talent show for the talentless, the flotsam and jetsam of showbusiness, the rejects of the celebrity mill.
The ship's current entertainment staff, led by Steve (somewhat less interesting) Brookstein, Goat-boy Chico and Journey South who would have been better advised to make the journey back north after their Grail Quest had ended in a cul-de-sac in Neasden, are all would be stars whose dreams died when they failed to make the transition from talent show to real world. Also on board are Andy Abrahams, Rowetta, and somebody called Tabby (who might once have been one of fatsally’s cats) Soon they will be joined by last years losing finalists little Ray Quinn (still available for panto, producers please note), and Proclaimers Tribute band The McDonald Brothers.
This years finalists make the ship in record time and be the cargo that capsizes the Cruiseship of Dead Dreams. The preternaturally happy bother and sister act with their automaton grins look as if they were created by some evil mastermind in the empty magma chamber of an extinct volcano on the Isle of Wight* while galloping albinism sufferer Rhydian who managed to make great rock ballads sound ridiculous by singing them in an operatic tenor with a thick Welsh accent has the look of a perpetually startled gerbil. Yes I did say an operatic tenor. Did you think this show was about finding pop singers? Well to The-Undead-In-Waiting, Bridge Over Troubled Waters is “a bit of that there heavy metal.”
We must hope the Ship Of Dead Dreams continues its voyage or where will the wannabes go to die. Then, like Joe Pasquale, Brian Conley and Gary Wilmot the will haunt our lives and our television screens forever.

* Wight is an island off the South Coast, wight is an Old English for undead spirit. Cool connection eh?

This is not Blasphemous, honestly. (Did someone say “Well there’s a first for Boggart Blog”? Infamy!)

To help get into the spirit of Christmas I want to tell you about a series of Christmas Carol Concerts to be held in the Devil’s Arse in case you wanted to attend (stop sniggering BBC Reporter! this is a serious and informative piece.)
If you think The Devil's Arse is not a place anyone ought to go anywhere near, let alone stage a concert of sacred songs in, you will be surprised how wrong you are. The acoustics are amazing.
The Devil’s Arse is a cave in Derbyshire U.K. so called because its large chamber is the head of a huge cave complex extending many miles under the limestone hills. With many subterranean chambers including on called Collossus and numerous smaller openings to the surface, conditions are right to set up eddies and vortices in the air currents moving through the caves. When the wind blows from the North West (unusual at this time of year) air currents arrive in the large chamber of the entrance cave where the natural resonance produces thunderous and euphonic fart noises.

Just what you want to liven up a Carol Concert.

Visit The Devil's Arse online and learn more

The television schedules for the Chistmas period show more repeats that ever will appear on our screens. Well if its good enough for television, its good enough for Boggart Blog.
Yesterday I inadvertently subsumed a very funny short post from fatsally beneath a long post of mine.
So, just to show we are capable of getting into the Chistmas spirit, instead of letting you sufffer through the Morecambe and Wise Chistmas Show 1971 - 78. here is another chance to see:
We won't take this lying down
This is a post female readers especially will enjoy.

Meanwhile, as the net is slow as hell today, I'll get off and return with some Brand New Episodes tomorrow.

I am always gobsmacked at how each Doomsday Cult can manage to be crazier than the last. The latest, the name of which I forget for the moment, led by a self appointed Messiah called Michael Travessor was the subject of a television documentary this week.
First question, how does one become a self appointed messiah. Maybe there is a website, messiahs-R-us selling do it yourself messiah kits on line. We know that fundie preacher Ted Haggard, who was caught getting blow jobs of rent boys, studied divinity at Oral Roberts University. UK readers do not believe the top Baptist education establishment in the U.S. Bible Belt is called Oral something. They think I made it up to slip in (oops, pardon!) whenever a fundie preachers was involved in a sex scandal. If that was true, it would be the most often used joke in history.
Anyway, back to the Doomsday Cult. Michael (66 or maybe 666) has a track record as a cult leader. He once led a breakaway from the Seventh Day Adventists. Back in those days he was called Wayne Bent and lived up to his name by proving to be bent as a Boxing Day turd (lovely phrase that) by embezzling all his followers funds.
Ah but that was Wayne, the new Messiah is Michael and, as if to prove they are two different people who have inhabited the same body, Michael is not interested in money but in sanctifying the female members of the cult. Having sex with him is like having sex with God you see. And apparently God likes under age virgins (that is no great secret of course, you only have to read the Bible to confirm it.)
Lack of virginity does not exclude female cult followers from being sanctified however. Michael likes to distribute his blessings equitably, in fact sometimes he is reluctant to have sex with certain women but God forces him to, as was the case of his “consummation” with his daughter - in - law.
Michael’s son strangely did not seem fazed as Dad told of the incident in his own inimitable style, which I shall now transpose in my own inimitable style.
Michael had told Cristina, his son’s wife to take off all her clothes and lie on the floor with her legs spread as this is the best position for receiving the Holy Spirit. Taking all his clothes off too, so that he could be closer to God, the Messiah began to pray for his daughter-in-law to be sanctified. Suddenly he felt a mighty force (the hand of God?) pushing down on him. Though he tried to resist, the force threw him to the floor roughly and as he landed on top of Cristina his penis was guided into her vagina by an angel. Michael felt uneasy about this and tried to withdraw his penis but the hand of God bore down on his arse and pushed him back in again. After this process had been repeated a few times both Michael and Cristina understood God wanted them to do the business and so they got on with the job with some vigour.
Michael had also gathered the cult’s pubescent virgins, several at a time and asked them to get naked and lie on his bed with him if they wanted to be sanctified before the End Of The World. The girls all were willing and even begged this 66(6) year old man to give them the full sex experience but God told him it was not necessary in these cases, or al least that is what he said after an advisor reminded him he could go to prison if he admitted having sex with under age girls.

And so we move on to the reason for all this, the Messiah’s wish to prepare his followers for The End Of The World. This momentous event happened, according to Michael, on 31 October 2007. At midnight Michael led his followers from their homes into the open to wait for God to raise them to heaven before destroying the world.
The stood, arms and faces raised to heaven, they prayed, they sang hymns... They prayed some more, they sang some more.
And then they all went home.

After this Michael became strangely reticent and sent a message to the film crew to the effect that as he and the remaining cultees, because a few still had not seen trough the insanity of it all, could not talk to film crews as they no longer had a life on this earth.

Yeah Right.

All in all it was a story of another ruthless, cynical individual controlling, manipulating and exploiting vulnerable individuals by preying on their insecurities and encouraging their self loathing.

Though in this article the surreal aspects are exaggerated for comic effect, just think how close the techniques Michael uses are to those of many multi-millionaire TV evangelists, faith healers, prophets and sundry other thieving scumbags.

It is the price a society must pay for freedom of religion although there is no reason in US law as far as I can see why these people cannot be arrested and charged with fraud. I suppose its that notion they have about free speech, although to my mind that does not extent to protecting the right to tell others they are not allowed to think or speak for themselves.

Whilst I am sure the whole world was relieved to read that scientists have discovered why pregnant women do not topple over,(flexible lower spines, wedge shaped vertebrea and bigger hip joints apparently) this rather overshadows Boggart's latest efforts to blag some money off the establishment.
Still determindly persuing the quest to discover the long term effects o