Egyptian revolt delays mojito

THOUSANDS of panicked UK tourists in Egypt contacted the Foreign Office last night after it emerged their mojito had still not arrived.

In resorts across the country, which currently seems to be undergoing some sort of violent revolution, stranded holiday makers said they ordered it about 15 minutes ago.

Julian Cook, who is staying at the Amenhotep III Golf Resort and Hydroponic Spa in Sharm-El-Sheikh, said: “This is an outrage. I have actually had to go to the bar and complain. And of course they immediately fobbed me off with some rubbish about how my waiter had just been shot by the police.

“I then pointed out that I could see at least two other waiters who had not been shot by the police and would it be beyond the bounds of reason for them to simply collect a mojito and a vodka and tonic from the bar and deliver them to our table without being shot by the police.”

He added: “What’s the point of spending your hard-earned money in an oppressive dictatorship if the bar staff are just going to give you a load of lip?”

Foreign secretary William Hague said the government was reviewing its Egyptian pre-dinner drinks advice constantly but at this stage there were no plans for the Royal Marines to evacuate British tourists to hotels where the staffing levels can absorb a deadly onslaught by the forces of oppression.

Why nobody cares why Egypt matters
Tom Logan, Reading University

“Egypt is seen as a vital arbiter between Arab militancy and the west when it comes to dealing with a wide variety of issues that you couldn’t give a tuppenny fuck about.

“Although Hosni Mubarak is, to all intents and purposes, a dictator, he has managed to contain the forces of Islamic fundamentalism, which is the thing that blows stuff up while you’re watching a television programme presented by Davina McCall.

“However the resulting oppression and corruption has created a powerful opposition movement that finally found the confidence to act, particularly following the uprising in that place where your cousin went scuba diving and caught chlamydia from a Welshman.

“The big questions now are: Can Mubarak survive? Will he be replaced by genuinely democratic institutions? Or will Islamic extremists grab power and destabilise the region in way that will eventually lead to some dialogue you won’t understand in a  film that will probably star Leonardo DiCaprio as a CIA operative who doesn’t play by the rules and befriends a simple villager who will get killed about 20 minutes from the end.”


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Guest blog: Colin Firth

Well, all I can say is ‘gosh’. Well, I would probably say that if I was being interviewed by one of those dreadful LA queers who front those piss-poor Hollywood entertainment channels.

You see they love all that la-de-da, English gent, Mr Darcy bollocks over there. But that’s why I’m an actor, I can get them to buy into the fact that I’m a proper English toff – which of course I am, if you don’t count the moments I spend at home, sat on my arse, reading the Mail and shouting at the fucking wife to get her fat arse in gear.

As I’ve told many people down the years – acting is all about the craft. Until, that is, you see the size of your co-star’s fucking Wiinebago. I never forget the day I turned up on set for the first day of The King’s Speech. Suffice to say I wasn’t best pleased when I saw I had to have my make-up applied in a fucking portacabin. Meanwhile, that fucking Australian savage Geoffrey Rush is sitting in this huge trailer like a bastard. ‘Hello dear boy’ I said as I walked into his spacious caravanette. He then called me ‘mate’ and described his trailer as ‘bonzer’. I told him Shine was over-rated colonial bollocks but probably as good as one could expect from a bunch of bloody criminals and then went outside and let three of his tyres down. ‘Mate’. Fuck off.

Everyone tells you that picking up the Bronze Lama of Frankfurt, or whatever the fuck it’s called, is the most important of all the film awards, but in reality, when it comes down to hard ackers, the only one that counts is the Oscar. I had a long lunch with Stinker Pinker, my financial advisor, and he reckons that if I snatch the Big One then I could increase my annual earnings by anything up to 40%. You fucking beauty! Apparently it’s best if I sink the cash into some offshore account in bongo-bongo land to save me having to pay shit loads of tax so some grubby little tart in Gateshead can stuff her ghastly miniature chavs with chip butties and alcopops.

There are many things which make life worth living: the closure of heavy industry, that time Stinker and Parslow set a tramp alight on the Embankment and opening up the pages of the old FT to find that your shares in BAE Systems have risen several points overnight. But all these things put together can’t beat the buzz you get, the shot of adrenalin you feel when you tread the boards for the first time to play the Dane…. Bollocks! God, I love money.

Can’t wait for Oscar night now. Last year I was given the most fantastic goody bag, the contents of which I immediately sold on eBay for a huge fucking profit. K-k-k-k-k-k-kerching!

As told to Matt Owen