THE Odyssey, a proud story of white men’s heroism, has been totally ruined by a woke film adaptation. Let me tell it how Homer did, six Stellas in:
Odysseus, known as Oddie to his mates, had been out with the lads to Troy. He’d kicked arse, impressed a sexy bird and was off home. But no way was he asking directions.
So he ends up a bit astray on this island of the lotus-eaters. Now he’s very much a lager man, but has a puff and ends up trapped there for bloody ages while they bore his arse off about cultural approbation or some shite. You know how lefties are.
He eventually breaks free by saying he’ll go and get Rizlas, but he’s a bit befuddled and him and the boys only end up with this cyclops. Ugly bugger. Only got one eye so of course he’s raking it in, benefits-wise. Got a free island off the state.
They escape from him by shagging sheep, sometimes you’ve got to take one for the team, but veer off course again when they see this lap-dancing club called Circe’s. Oddie’s not up for it exactly but nor is he in a rush to go home to the wife.
So they’re in there, the lads acting like pigs with their snouts in a trough, when this Circe says the strippers, a racially diverse crew but in the good way, deserve to present the football just like white men. He’s not having that, so he gives her one and they piss off.
Wise to it they plug their ears to the Sirens, who are the Loose Women of the Aegean, always harping on about bollocks, and he steers deftly between the Cilla and the Charybdis, the first representing wokery and the second going a bit too Elon Musk.
He makes it home and there’s all these blokes grooming up his wife. Foreigners. He fires an arrow through all their heads, his dog recognises him like you see in those videos on Facebook where US servicemen come home that make me tear up a bit, job done.
Greatest story ever told, mate, with a timeless message: you can’t trust abroad. Get the pints in, my mouth’s drier than a Trojan’s sandal.
