You There! Rearrange My Caviar! Demands Jumped-Up Bookie

A JUMPED-UP bookie has threatened to boycott British Airways after a stewardess refused to rearrange his caviar into the shape of Charles Bronson in Death Wish II.

Chris Bell, a turf accountant from London, said he had been treated like a normal person after the 'simple request' during his first class trip from Barbados to Heathrow.

"The caviar was just dumped in the middle of the plate like it had been put there with a big spoon," he said.

"I politely asked the girl to take it back and rearrange it in the shape of Charles Bronson holding out his 44 Magnum and about to blow away the scum that killed his family.

"She said that would not be possible and then tried to throw my daughter out of the plane."

He added: "I realised I had no choice but to get out of my seat, position myself in the middle of the aisle, comb my hair, clear my throat, get out my megaphone and announce, 'DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?'"

A BA spokesman said: "We would have been happy to rearrange Mr Bell's starter into the shape of a tree, a frog or a kitten, as per our corporate policy.

"But our highly-trained staff simply do not have time to recreate scenes from Charles Bronson films – in caviar."

He added: "We're very sorry he has reacted in this way and will now be seeking our racing tips from the bloke that runs William Hill."

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One Woman's Week: You Won't Beat Me, Adolf Bannatyne

By Karen Fenessey

YOU might think when you watch Duncan Bannatyne on the BBC’s Dragon’s Den program, that he is a really great guy who knows a thing or two about how to keep fit. But let me tell you: all is not as it seems in this so-called den and Mr Bannatyne is actually a tyrant who exploits the souls of innocents.

I had always suspected that Duncan was a misogynist and now, after visiting one of his ‘leisure’ establishments, my worst fears have been confirmed- because only a sexist pig could persecute a woman as virtuous as myself in the manner he did.

When some promotional passes to one of Mr Bannatyne’s facilities were given to the staff at my primary school, most of the ignoramuses and lesbians I work with just tossed them aside. However, I never shirk at the chance to get down to some serious exertions, so I joyfully accepted Duncan’s invitation.

Upon arrival, he was not there to meet me and instead I was confronted with a know-it-all secretary, who claimed to be a fitness instructor. After perusing the list of activities on offer, I opted for advanced Body Combat. The secretary started patronising me: “Miss Fenessey, I don’t think this is the right class for you. As a newcomer you might want to try beginners’ Spin. It’s so much fun, I know you’ll like it.”

Well, you can imagine my rage. “Listen, you stupid bimbo,” I began, “I am by no stretch of the imagination a beginner to body combat, or for that matter spinning. You don’t get to be where I am today in the British primary education system without knowing a thing or two about combat mano a mano (as they say in Rome) so just tell me where the damn class is and I’ll make my own way there.”

Well, I’m sorry to say that Mr Bannatyne’s minions sought their revenge on poor Miss Fenessey in the most horrific of ways. During the class, the awful ‘instructor’ forced me to perform a series of manoeuvres so harrowing, that my very insides began to shut down. Try as I might to battle through the pain, there is only so much that one woman’s viscera can take and to my horror, my (normally reliable) intestinal tract began failing and I suffered a ghastly haemorrhage before I had time to get to the toilet. And would you believe that, as I was on the verge of death, these bitches actually sniggered at me? This was no laughing matter: it was a medical and psychological process, which is indicative of unimaginable trauma. Indeed, when the noble orang-utan is threatened in its tree by nasty men with machine guns, it reacts in much the same way.

It is a sad day that I find myself standing shoulder to shoulder with the likes of the ever persecuted Germaine Greer and the bullet riddled orang-utan. But Duncan and his whores have not heard the last from me: don’t be surprised if he’s not on Dragon’s Den for some time because he’s appearing in a court of law and attempting to account for his hate crime. The next time he’s alone in his bed at night, crying because there’s not a fine woman like me present to touch him on his tiny pecker, he’ll no doubt rue the day he crossed THIS particular entrepreneur.