Joss Stone murder plot not some weird dream

THE alleged plot to kill Joss Stone with a sword is not one of those dreams you keep having, it emerged last night.

As a small red car was charged with being suspicious near a white soul diva, police said you are awake and this is really happening.

Detective Inspector Martin Bishop said: “When I got the first call I had to check that it wasn’t from my old PE teacher and that he wasn’t actually standing in the corner of the room wearing nothing but a pair of wellingtons and angrily fiddling with himself.

“And to make doubly sure, when the arresting officer told me they were going to kill Joss Stone with a big sword and then put her in a bag, I put the phone down and banged my forehead against my desk a few times.”

He added: “Last month we got a call that a giraffe had hijacked a microlight and was planning to drop Fern Britten on Fearne Cotton.

“I spent two weeks on that. It was a tremendous waste of police resources and I should really have been sacked.”

Superintendent Wayne Hayes added: “I was very confused as I do have a habit of watching the sort of crapulent talk shows where Joss Stone is the musical turn while eating a large plate of incredibly ripe camembert.

“But I followed police procedure whenever you get a report of a suspicious car and sure enough it was foreign with narrow headlights that kept darting from side to side.”

Meanwhile tributes are being paid to Will Young after he was beaten unconscious by his own cats and then fired from a cannon, despite several desperate warnings via Twitter that his life was in danger.



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Desert Island Discs: The Duke of Edinburgh

LIKE, dig that crazy beat.

I’ve been asked to pick some of my all-time favourite tunes for all you music lovers, so without further ado let’s put my first one on the beat box, chill out and try to ignore Edward as he sits in the corner, browsing through a fabric catalogue. Why, what do we have here? It’s a record that my feckless tit of an eldest son used to play all the time. I remember with fondness how the plaster would fall to the floor as I banged on the ceiling with my coolie stick while he listened to it over and over and over again.  

Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong ying tong
Young tong idle I po
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong idle I po

Yes, indeed, it was She Loves You by the then popular ‘The Beatles’ – a pop group renowned for their ability to play musical instruments and sing ‘yeah’ a great deal, but not hold down a regular job because they were Liverpudlian thieves.

Music is a wonderful thing, even when it’s being interrupted by bothersome DJs like Jimmy Young. The wife’s mother used to listen to him all the bloody time, but even she had to switch it off when he started doing recipes for couscous and playing the Lighthouse Family.

Music has been central to some very important moments in my life. I remember listening to my second choice, Wuthering Heights by Kate Bush, as I rode to victory in the Black & Decker Workmate National Carriage Championships (South-West Section). Then there was the time I had a Walkman strapped to my head as it blasted out King Crimson (Andrew informed me we were related, and then sniggered for some reason – the perverted oaf) as I captained my team to victory in the semi-final of the Tyne Brand Polo Classic.

Many of you think I’m a stuffed shirt who goes around calling people inappropriate names and upsetting devious little Chinamen. Utter nonsense. I’m guilty of just one of those things but for the life of me I can’t remember which one it is. Or is it both? Anyway, I remember when Sir Elton John came to the Palace for tea. We had a brief chat and he punched me on the arm and called me a ‘hip young gunslinger’. I hadn’t the foggiest what he was on about but it didn’t matter because six burly men from the Royal Protection Squad grabbed him by the arms and legs and tossed him out the window. Good times.

Anyway, my third choice is anything by Big Country, because I love the way their bagpipes sound like guitars. Or is it the other way around?

My book would be No One Here Gets Out Alive, the biography of Jim Morrison. Like me, he was possessed by the soul of a Native American shaman, was arrested for indecent exposure and was the world’s hottest bastard in a pair of snakeskin trousers. Also, his father was an admiral. It’s like we’re twins.

My luxury would be a limitless supply of depth charges with which I’d fish the surrounding waters mercilessly, until all that remained was a quadriplegic starfish.