For Christ's Sake Just Buy Some Helicopters, Says Everyone

MINISTERS were last night told to stop dicking about and just buy a load of helicopters, for Christ's sake.

People across Britain said that if helicopters will stop soldiers from being blown up in Afghanistan then ministers should really get some of them and stop being such a bunch of arseholes, all the time.

The government has so far refused demands from senior generals to buy more helicopters, insisting they are even more dangerous than the Taleban because if you don't crouch down they can chop the top of your head off.

But Bill McKay, from Doncaster, said: "When it comes to wars and stuff I'm inclined to go with generals and admirals, rather than some bloke called 'Bob Ainsworth' who spent 20 years as a shop steward in Coventry before deciding to sit around on his fat arse all day spending my money."

Emma Bradford, from Stevenage, said: "The problem seems to be bombs at the side of the road. I would suggest we build a huge network of canals, but unfortunately all the Irish are now working in call centres.

"I'm no scientist, but it would appear that the only available option would therefore be some sort of flying machine."

She added: "I know, why don't we get the MPs to hand over the profits they made from all the houses they bought with my money? That's got to be at least three helicopters. Probably quite good ones as well."

Margaret Gerving, a retired headmistress from Surrey, said: "I've noticed there are lots of wind turbines just standing about doing precisely fuck all most of the time. Surely we can use some of the bits to make at least one helicopter?"

And Tom Logan, from Finsbury Park, added: "Do we want a state of the art Olympic velodrome so we can maintain our global dominance at riding a bike, or do we want more live soldiers? It's a tricky one isn't it?"

Sign up now to get
The Daily Mash
free Headlines email – every weekday

Your Problems Solved, With Holly Harper

Dear Holly,
Last weekend I was on a night out with the girls to celebrate my 36th birthday. Clad arse to tit in neon lycra, I must have cast a highly alluring shadow across the dancefloor as I limboed to Britney Spears, because next thing I knew, I was on all fours behind a skip being pummelled vigorously from behind by some random teenage drunkard. Hardly noticing that I was kneeling in a spilt cocktail of urine and vomit, I panted like a spaniel with heatstroke as he shot his load across my back and staggered away. The problem is that since this brief encounter, I've developed a rather embarrassing condition whereby my clacker is itchier than a vagrant's arsehole. Can you suggest why this might be?

Dear Sue,
Hasn't your mummy ever warned you that boys are dirty and you should stay well away from them? They are made of frogs and snails and puppy dog tails. Once, an older boy from my school picked up a big dry piece of dog poo with a stick and threw it at me, and it got caught in my hair – my new princess clip was ruined! I was forced to get my revenge by telling my mummy that he trapped me in the art cupboard and put the end of his willy in my mouth. Guess what? He got taken away from school the next day and mummy says he's gone to a place where he can't hurt little girls anymore. I feel a little bit naughty for fibbing, but I bet he rues the day he flung a jobby at me.
Hope that helps!