Guest Blog: Basil Brush

I say, do you know, I went into the local sweet shop to buy myself a quarter of everlasting gobstoppers the other day, only to discover it had been taken over by a bunch of foreigners!

I approached the counter and asked the man for me sweeties: "A quarter of your finest gobstoppers please, my good squire!" The fella behind the counter shook his head and pointed to a load of pongy old sausages hanging from the ceiling. I took one look at the ghastly things and told him: "Pheeeww! If you think I'm eating any of your dirty, foreign muck you must be a Scotch egg short of a picnic." 

When I got home, I told Mr Nick I'd changed my mind and that I would be attending the BNP meeting that night, after all. The sooner we get rid of these lazy, stinking Polak scumbags, the better.

The Blooming Nice People meeting was such an absolute scream! Mr Nick is the head cheese there, and he invited yours truly to make a speech. I wasn't too sure at first, but he offered a ruddy great slap-up meal as a reward. Anyway, after I'd told everybody how I really, really hate blackies, chinks, pakis and frogs, this nice man called Mr David got up and made a super little speech about how the Jews are a bunch of moaning minnies and those who say that millions died in horrific circumstances during the war had just imagined it and that they should jolly well buck their ideas up!

After the meeting, Mr Nick and I went to an Indian restaurant and had chicken and chips and ice cream for afters. Both of us turned our noses up when they presented us with the foreign menu. Who wants to end up smelling like Mr and Mrs Patel round the corner? Pooo! What a bloomin' awful whiff!

Mr Nick and myself visited the council today to complain about a group of gypsies who've been camping on the roundabout. The man at the council said that they were perfectly within their rights, and that we shouldn't call them pikeys, gippoes or any other 'racialist' names. "Ooooooh," I said, and scrunched up my nose. Then Mr Nick very kindly picked me up and I bit the bit the daft-looking twit right in the goolies!

I've never seen Mr Nick quite so angry – apart from that time he got jolly batey when those two queer fellows next door asked to borrow some butter.  Anyway, he told me to jump in the car as we had a little job to do. Soon enough we were racing through the darkened streets towards the gypsy encampment, where we waited until midnight before torching the place. On the way home I turned to Mr Nick and said: "How's that for a camp fire?"

Boom! Boom!


As told to Matt Owen 

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Heather Mills To Strangle A Badger

HEATHER Mills last night celebrated her divorce from Britain's most successful jingle composer by pledging to throttle a series of woodland creatures.

Mills set out detailed plans to strangle a baby deer with her bare hands, before choking a badger with its own tail and dispatching an entire family of rabbits with a leather belt.

The former glamour model also plans to nail 100 red squirrels to a row of tiny crosses which she has erected along the road leading to ex-husband Sir Paul McCartney's Sussex farm.

Standing outside the High Court in London Mills said: "Bacon, bacon, bacon. Steak, sausage, kidneys and a greasy bap full of veal."

She added: "I can't say he was cruel to me, for the sake of my daughter, but I will write it down so you can have a look at it: 'He reversed over me with my own wheelchair. Twice'.

"I was on Dance with the Stars in America you know. And Larry King. With one leg. What's he ever done? I don't do the nudey pics anymore. Haven't for years. Land mines, by the way. I've got a charity."

Mills said her £25 million divorce pay-out was an 'incredible victory' over Sir Paul – who had known the judge since they were in the Hitler Youth together – and only £100 million less than she had asked for.

But she said the £35,000 a year pocket money for daughter Beatrice was 'miserly' and would mean she was forced to dip into her £17 million lump sum to pay for the child's food.

"She'll have to eat Asda beans and own-brand chocolate fingers, while he jets around the world in his fleet of organic parsnips.

"He's not even the real Paul McCartney, you know."