cNutgroist

Do you remember, dear, that time I was in Africa? I forget which country but it was one of the darker ones - bones through their noses, inflation at a billion percent, arbitrary state borders and an irrational hatred of the white man, you know, the full-on limbo-dancing voodoo-and-missionary stew. We were out there doing important zoological research, hunting for the last of the lost dinosauruses, complete with Italian documentary crew and all. We thought it would make our fames and fortunes, so you gave me your modified elephant gun and I took my small-bore bazooka, though of course I checked it in on the flight. I tried to hire a family of natives to assist but it turned into such a bureaucratic nightmare that I was forced to simply buy them outright instead. I had the full intention of probably setting them free or maybe selling them back at a profit, if one was to be made - in which case I could have shared the money with them. At the very least, I would have taken them back at the end of the trip and got my money back, even if I had to break some bones and call it defective goods. Just like with Argos, really. Anyway, it's gilt-edged the prestige they got working for us, they could have commanded a much higher price for their indentured servitude after that. If only they'd have lived. Besides, it was a politically necessary move to throw some cash around the place, having accidentally killed one of their gods during a spot of grenade practice. That's how you make friends in these dark holes - by talking their language. Let them know who's equal, you see. But of course with their President for Life personally welcoming me at the airport with the now traditional gesture of open arms trading, I only had to give him the cheap Russian knock-offs that fell off the back of a serf that i'd got for part exchange in a deal for the franchise rights to the chain of Chernobyl Fried Chicken stores (slogans: "13 finger-licking good", "the other green-coloured chicken from Kiev", "a half-life at half-price") that I'd won in a poker game along with half a million dollars worth of breast enhancement surgery and a crateload of Mogwai (which turned out to be just the one grumpy little critter with a 2 litre bottle of San Pellegrino). If you recall, I thought I'd been saddled with a 3 bob groat, a 10-bob zloty, a fool's florin, a siamese dog god, a jelly fist, a chinaman's kneecap, a metric pound of pasteurised bumcheese etc. But you suggested combining the two, et voila! A 500 strong troupe of fat-knockered hula-dancing Chinese fairie folk, a nice little revenue stream for me now that they pay for themselves (with a little extra work on the side, well, in the back) closing Les Folies Barbares every night except Frunday. I hear they've taken Clermont-Ferrand by storm, absolutely painting the town red after midnight. FYI, I saved twenty grand of the surgery money to get Mother's fat arse cut down to size, with the excess currently being sculpted into a larger-than-lifesize marbled-meat impression of me at birth, which may act as the centrepiece to the Grand Vizier's Garden Party this Springtember. His Royal Fanciness requested a live Matryoshka troupe but I told him, the last group still in existence died out due to a fungal infection passed on by Fludmilla, the teenage tearaway of the family and a registered slut. Near as hell decimated the Imperial Navy at Omsk, which went in no small part to our famous victory at Crimea. You never knew because I kept it from you but this coincided with a general downturn in my fortunes, having invested heavily in Gravy for Gays Inc. So when the Spunk Bubble burst, I was left with little more than egg-white over my face. I had to sell my controlling stock in the Greek Orthodox Church and a Kidney. Patriarch Kleftikos was a happy man but Archbishop Dialysis was most certainly not. I also sold my Echidna. And my Hare. And my Hart. And my Cock. And both my Bullocks. I still miss them. If I hadn't won a contract with the German Government to print their banknotes during the great economic boom of 1929-33, I might still be wanking and crying for coins and trinkets on the great cobbled streets of Covent Garden, alond with Father who, to the best of my knowledge, is still there, running a cartel of wank-cryers - or is it cry-wankers? please consult the Oxford with you dear? - who pay him a portion of their takings for the best spots where they might ply their trade and more besides for the curious tourists, the sympathetic and the out-of-town school trips. Give Father credit, when he started they said it would never work. And when it worked, they said would be just a flash in the pan. But now, 3 weeks later and he's still going strong. A lot of tears have flowed over those ever-smoothening cobblestones, some salty, some milky, and he's turned it into an internationl tourist spot to rival Speakers' Corner, The Tower of London and that grassy verge in Hyde Park where the Queen Mother once took a golden shit. The story goes she was out riding one morning and got caught short so, game old bird that she was, rather than have her equerry open him mouth for her to lay a steaming fat one in, as was customary in that family's middle-class German heritage - one only needs to watch 1000's of hours of that country's most extreme pornography to understand that quickly - she hiked up her skirts, removed her anal chastity belt and dumped out a large nugger of purest goldenry. An alchemical miracle that old girl, many would accuse her of swallowing the Philosopher's Stone, though she swore it was just the gin and vendettas. Some say it was encrusted with jewels and the Royal Seal itself, before being taken away by a footman and chopped up into bite-size lumps, as with any normal, pooey Royal Shit, and then distributed among the poor, again, as with any normal Royal Shit. Another theory has it that it was divided into two roughly equal pieces which were then rushed by steam train to the helicopter pad, where one was flown to the Diocese of Canterbury and one to the Diocese of York. The respective Archbishops then 'took' their portions as Holy Communion and that's why the Anglican Church is in such a good state as it is today. Incidentally, I have received an invitation to their wedding and must think of a gift. As you know, the only person of sufficient stature in the good old Church of E to officiate the union between these two lovebirds is the Queen herself - and she says she's busy opening a Bingo hall in Riyadh that weekend. There's also the thorny theological issue of what happens when a Most Reverend marries a Very Reverend, and although biologically impossible, if they were to have a childling, would said progeny not be more senior than the Crown itself? This is not simply idle speculation, though it's that too. For one thing, we may someday see a female Archbishop, though quite why the Almighty may seek to test us in this baptism of fiery menstrual blood and modernity i do not know. Perhaps to show the flesh-eating, blood-drinking St Peterites of Rome just how silly they look not being able to fuck eachother. And for another, if any pair of fine, upstanding Christian males are going to conceive a little miracle, it's going to be the Very and the Most Reverends, Mr And Mr Archbishop themselves. If Mary can conceive Jesus Christ himself without getting some much as a fingerfuck, it should be no problem for one of the two churchmen to poo out a minor Saint after what im reliably informed is an absolutely rock-solid dicking. Like most of these seemingly intractable issues in life, I find playing out all the consequences in theory to be the best way towards resolution. To that end, I'm wondering if you know where my pack of Top Trumps Bishops and Cardinals is please? Incidentally, I don't want to worry you but I've been visiting a certain somone who shall remain nameless, every wednesday after he's done answering Prime Minister's Question Time, to play a round or 80 of Top Trumps Nuclear War. I shall try and encode a message in this letter that only you will get, ok? It will be subtle and come without warning, I warn you. So, while you're looking for my cards, I suppose you might want to grab Top Trumps Build A Nuclear Bunker and Trivial Pursuit Stockpile Food and Medical Supplies edition, because I ran across this idea the other day, when I was out running, and I ran and I ran and I ran until I saw our friend Izzy Gunnagh-Startagh-Waugh nodding sagely as he packed all his wife and kids and all his belongings into lead-lined suitcases to be shipped off to somewhere very far away that rhymes with Zoo Kneeland. But fate's a funny thing, though not funny ha-ha. So maybe I'd say I'll see you there, under the Ploopla tree, where the orange-foot dudo do roam.
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