Man Who Mooned The Queen to Receive Knighthood

A man who 'mooned' The Queen last month is to be knighted by her majesty for "services to charity" after it transpired he had a number of charitable organisations tattooed on his buttocks. 

Mark Knapp, 34, was arrested in Norfolk on October 14th for 'indecent exposure'. Footage of the incident showed Knapp, a father of 6, leap out of the crowd of well-wishers, walk up to The Queen, bend over and expose his tattooed buttocks. The footage, which has since gone viral, was later pored over by detectives, whereupon they discovered the wording on either cheek. 

"We analysed the footage for hours on end, we lost a lot of good men" DS Troilus Dick told us. "Even with such advanced technology, we just couldn't make out the wording on Mr. Knapp's buttocks, the footage was very poor, it's ironic really, you'd think others would have better footage, but no. I've seen footage of Bigfoot which is better quality. Hell, i've seen footage of Bigfoot's hairy tushy which is a higher definition to this. You could see every hair, it was magnificent, you can see it if you want, I have a Facebook group, but this is beside the point".

"We eventually managed to make out the names of several high-profile charities supported by Her Majesty The Queen. "ActionAid" was on the left cheek, so was "Invalid Children's Aid Nationwide", we then sensed a pattern and managed to work out "Moorfields Eye Hospital NHS Foundation Trust", "National Council for Voluntary Organisations" and the "603 (City of Edinburgh) Squadron Royal Auxiliary Airforce" on the right cheek. We then realised what fools we'd been. This gentleman was not just some sick, perverted republican loser who wanted viral fame, he was trying to support Her Majesty in her charitable endeavours. He just chose a very cheeky way to do it, if you pardon the pun!"

Mr. Knapp was swiftly released from HMP Wandsworth, where he was being detained, and immediately brought to Buckingham Palace to receive a knighthood, still dressed in his prison garb. 

"Mate, I was buzzing, you know what I mean?" Knapp told NNNN, "I always, like, thought my arsehole would get me somewhere, now look at where I am, look! Look at the fucking ceiling, look at them cushions, it's all plush and that. Fuck me, man."

The knighthood was an unusual one when Her Majesty broke precedent and hugged Mr. Knapp then lightly tapped his posterior like they do in those ASDA adverts. They then dabbed together and performed a popular 'TikTok' dance. The gesture went viral and endeared The Queen to the younger generation, who no longer want to question authority and will do what they're bloody well told. 

The mooning has sparked copycat incidences, none of which have had quite the same effect. A Colorado woman flashed her breasts at President Joe Biden, reportedly with the words "Denver Gun Maintenance and Repair Society" tattooed on them. Secret Service agents quickly tackled her to the ground and she's now serving 10 consecutive life sentences in ADX Florence. A man in Scotland was also arrested for shoving his flaccid cock in Alex Salmond's face at a local charity dinner for military veterans. "Save the Squirrel" was his chosen charity. 

The trend has also creeped it's way online, mainly via Instagram. Numerous celebrities have exposed their derrieres in the aid of a good cause, causing many Christian groups to criticise the social networking site for obscenity. The furore was quickly quelled when Neil Patrick Harris revealed his hindquarters with "Christian Women for Online Safety and Censorship" emblazoned on both cheeks. The organization thanked the actor for spreading the word of Jesus Christ, our Lord and saviour to his millions of followers. 

Mr. Knapp is humble when asked about the phenomenon he's created. "It's fuckin' mental, man. I genuinely can't remember how those charities got on there, it's all a blur. I think it was, like, a night out or something, I just remember going out for a piss-up with Callum and the boys, then, like, we're fucking down for the count, you know what I mean? And suddenly i'm in this tattoo parlour and i'm in fucking agony, like real searing pain. And there's these fucking weird old men lookin' down at me and laughing, and there's green smoke everywhere. I thought I was trippin' if i'm honest with ya'. Next morning I wake up and Danielle,  my wife, or whatever, says I have these random words on my arse. It fuckin' freaked me out, man, you know what I mean? It was fucking cosmic shit, like real Black Mirror shit."

Mr. Knapp knew of The Queen's visit to the town and decided to moon the 95-year old monarch for a laugh. "I feel like she needs it, ya know? Her hubby died recently, right? I just thought it'd give her a laugh, the police didn't need to pin me to the ground, fucking snowflakes, can't take a joke."

The tabloids quickly christened the event 'Arsegate', whilst the broadsheets ran a number of articles on how chimpanzees 'present' to potential mating partners, and the history of the bum and it's sociological significance across varying societies past and present. 

The act of mooning was invented in the 19th century by Sir Grenville Moon, an explorer and military officer who found that baring his buttocks to his battalion of men would raise their spirits and provoke much laughter and merriment. The move worked, though Moon soon developed an addiction to exposing his rump, pulling off the act during the Charge of the Light Brigade in the Crimean War in 1854. Some historians have put the responsibility for the tragic loss of British life at Moon's feet, or rather, his bum. 

What Is Upwing Politics? NNNN Explains

Omaha, Nebraska. There's a sense of hayfevery optimism in the air, organisers, strategists, volunteers and voters are pregnant with anticipation, awaiting the arrival of their candidate, their guy. Some have camped out here for weeks, such is the unprecedented enthusiasm for this particular campaign. Edna Schultz and her 4 year old daughter Babs have been living in a small tent for over a fortnight, surviving on various insects and grubs. 

"You wouldn't see me doing this for Obama or Trump, not even Biden. I know they make people feel euphoric, especially Joe, those aviators could make even my gun-toting, Confederate flag-wearing father melt like a snowman meeting Timothee Chalamet in a sauna, but he doesn't have that effect on me, or Babs." 

The candidate in question is Omaha's own Vaughan Eagles, a state senator making quite a splash in Nebraska politics. A clip of Eagles went viral earlier this year showing the Senator launch into an impassioned speech decrying politicians from both sides of the aisle in the Nebraska State Senate chamber for what he called an 'embarrassing lack of compromise and imagination'. Eagles' rhetorical prowess and anarchic gesticulation was deemed 'highly refreshing' by the Nebraska Times. It also won plaudits from Buzzfeed, who had sent a 12 year old boy to cover the speech. 

"One can tire of the drab, rehearsed, unimaginative political speeches nowadays. Eagles is like a breath of fresh air, like a lonesome can of Pepsi nestled deep in a dollar store freezer on a warm August day."

Eagles is fast becoming one of the most popular politicians in the United States, even surpassing Biff from Back to the Future lookalike Madison Cawthorn from North Carolina. "He has something about him.." explains Edna Schultz, "something mercurial, something raw. I remember someone once said to be a popular politician in the US you have to look like someone who could shoot a buffalo and watch it bleed to death in the day, then be able to go on and host a talk show at night, smiling and talking about family values".

The crowd was bubbling away, Schultz was squealing with glee, it was almost time for Eagles to take to the stage and the atmosphere was bubbling away, not since Tony Robbins came to town has there been such a feeling of collective elation. The announcer's voice boomed through the tannoy system, "Ladies and gentlemen, the time is now come, please put your hands together for America's saviour, Nebraska's own, Vaughan Eagles!" Rapturous applause followed, Eagles walked out, dressed in a red, white and blue suit, holding a bald eagle on one arm and a bible in the other, all the while moon-walking with ease toward the microphone.

"Nebraska!" Eagles cried, the mere mention of their home state sent the crowd into foamy-mouthed spasms of delight, "I, am Vaughan, motherfucking, Eagles! And I.. am here.. to save you!" The crowd, manic and primal, ecstatically started chanting his name, a woman's bra hits Eagles' face, he picks it up, gives it to the eagle on his arm, the eagle flies off with the purple-sequined bra in his golden beak, high up into sky as a jet plane flies past with the American flag in tow. The eagle drops the bra onto the flag and the crowd let out a deafening, joyous roar. 

"Nebraska!" The second mention of this word delays Eagles' speech again for another two minutes as the crowd cannot get over the fact that they've just heard the name of the state where they're from. "I am here, to give you something new, to give you what you've been waiting for. Eagles then takes his blazer and shirt off, rolls the shirt up then tosses it into the audience. The audience scramble to catch it and in the process, tear each other apart limb from limb, gnaw at each other's faces like ravenous dogs, flesh and bones flying hither and thither, torturous howls of jealous anguish assaulting the ears of those who witness it. Eventually a lucky member of the audience prevails with the shirt in hand, by now soaked with mad, patriotic American blood, the woman wrings the blood out of it like a wash-cloth, stuffs it in her fanny-pack, then urges the audience to be silent for Eagles. 

"Nebraska!" Again the audience let out a sharp, piercing roar of appreciation for Eagles mentioning the man-made, historical boundary they happen to inhabit within a much larger man-made boundary. "I am here to tell you it don't have to be how it is, it don't have to be how it is, Nebraska, it don't have to be how it is. It don't have to be how it has always been, I am here to tell you how it could be, and let me tell you, it don't have to be how it has been, Nebraska, oh no, no, you betcha' it don't."

Eagles then pauses for a moment or two while two of his stage crew assist him into a jet-pack, before hurriedly leaving the stage for Eagles to continue, "I am here to tell you, it don't have to be left, right or centre, Nebraska, it don't, it don't have to be left, right centre, socialist, capitalist, libertarian, libertarian capitalist, libertarian socialist, anarcho-communist, anarcho-capitalist, or all that crap, it don't have to be left, it don't have to be right, i'm telling you, Nebraska, it can be... UP!" At this point Eagles ascends rapidly into the air, much to the crowd's delight, upward and upwards he soars, high into the Nebraska sky, the crowd reach fever pitch, they chant 'Eagles! Eagles! Eagles!' To them he appears a spec, so far up he appears, cries of 'wow!' fill the air, all eyes are on Eagles as he rises higher and higher, higher and higher, to impossible heights, until the propeller of the jet plane with the American flag in tow cuts him up and slashes him into a million pieces.

The crowd are stunned silent, 'is this part of the act?', a moment or two passes, then stray body parts start to fall into the crowd, and a sudden gust of wind sprays blood into their faces. A leg lands on Edna Schultz's water cooler, a severed head lands on a barbecue, a torn bible lands on the bonnet of a Mustang. Suddenly the mood, as it so often does on occasions such as these, turns sour. Mothers are screaming, men are firing their pistols into the air, babies are crying, topless girls are praying in a prostrate position, dogs are rabidly fighting over this adored politician's haggard remains. 

A man, soaked in blood and wearing a glazed expression upon his face, picks up the severed head of State Senator Vaughan Eagles, walks onto the stage and up to the microphone, "howl! howl! howl!" he cries, "God is dead!" He places the head down on the stage, as the purple-sequined bra floats down and covers it. 

This is Upwing politics, a new brand of politics, and a particularly grizzly one if I may say so myself. Let us hope it doesn't make it's way across the Atlantic to Britain, but, then again, maybe it already has. 

Royal Shipping Forecast With NNNN's Royal Correspondent Lurpac De Moine

Sandringham, Norfolk

Queen, cyclonic, incensed, mad at her grandson, wants to impale his wife, 2 to 4. Wealth, obscene. 

Balmoral, Scotland

Prince Charles, becoming restless, 3 to 5, waiting for mother to bite the dust. Occasionally charming, prone to grandiosity. Becoming northwest 4 to 6. Coffee enemas becoming moderate, perhaps rough. Camilla administers them. Mental image, oh, so rough. 

Clarence House, London

Duchess of Cambridge, moving southerly, 3 to 5, despairing, husband's bald. Looks into eyes of son, 4 to 7, occasionally noisy, worrisome of fate, westerly, moderate, becoming like father, hair implants. 

Windsor Castle, Berkshire

Princess Anne, becoming thundery, owns horses, 5 to 7, stirrups need cleaning, moving westerly, mother calls, "Yes kweeeeeeeen?" Occasionally 7 later, moving North.

Highgrove House, Gloucestershire

Prince Andrew, gone south, 5 to 7, years in prison. Doesn't sweat. 

Gale Warnings

Beatrice and Eugenie, spending tax payers money on multiple holidays per year. Warning, broken institution, warning, abolish.

England Fans Engage in 'Skirmishes' With the Fake Crowd Noises

For over a year, football, this most raucous of sports, has fell silent. Not completely silent, the thwack and smash of the ball has become a soothing and almost therapeutic sound for fans watching at home, as has the impassioned bellowing of the manager on the touchline and the players barking orders to each other. Fans watching on the TV have witnessed football laid bare, skeletal and stripped down, with none of the pageantry and noise, none of the ebbing and flowing of emotions, the exhilarating highs followed by the slow petering out of the drama. 

But a lot of viewers at home couldn't handle the silence, the eerie, mundane, almost cold representation of the mechanical nature of the sport. The players walked onto the pitch, played 90 minutes of football, then were heard no more. For fans who just couldn't bear the lack of commotion, producers inserted crowd noises into the television broadcast to much avail. It had it's critics, some who decried it's superficiality and it's poorly-modulated and monotonous effect, but largely, the fake crowd noises did football fans a service by making the beautiful game feel just that little bit more normal. 

The noises had become a permanent fixture for fans tuning in to watch their team play in front of empty stadiums, so the news that a limited number of fans would be allowed to attend Wembley Stadium to watch England play at the delayed Euro 2020, was met with jubilation. For the first time in over a year, fans would be able to cheer on the England team, and the team would actually hear it. For the semi-final against Denmark on Wednesday night, 60,000 fans were packed into Wembley to watch history happen before their eyes as England advanced to the final of a major tournament for the first time since 1966. The atmosphere was electric, just as it had been against Ukraine in the quarter-finals and, of course, Germany in the last-16. 

BUT. 

Having English fans back in the stadium, drunk on pride, passion and merriment, dripping with sweat, red and white paint plastered over their mad faces, moobs, boobs and backsides bouncing, beer being bunged into the sweet midsummer barmy British air presents a few problems. After all this time caged like wild animals, fans needed to let off some steam, and let off some steam they did, good golly did they let off some steam.

Alan Barnes of Burnham-On-Crouch told NNNN that he realised something was wrong as the game reached the 89th minute. Some fans situated in the stand near him were become increasingly rowdy, but Barnes thought it was just the usual wrong uns', getting up to no good, "I saw them fighting, but they weren't fighting each other, they were almost possessed, It was quite disturbing." 

Barnes later found out that the 230 or so fans had been spooked by the fake crowd noises, "I found it incredibly odd, I mean, even when there were crowd noises, only people watching the telly could hear them, so, how on God's green Earth did these knuckleheads get spooked by it? If you ask me, it's these vaccines, I follow Matt Le Tissier on the ol' Twitter, and he's a prominent anti-vaxxer, the lad's a respected voice in the media, so he must be talking some sense, I mean, come on, the guy's a multi-millionaire, what does he have to lose from pushing these views? Money talks, remember that, he he! Money talks, bitches, money talks".

Psychologists are baffled at how the fans could have not only heard, but have been triggered by these imaginary noises. Prof. Yan Dexter of the University of Cockfosters, Berkeley opined that the noises might've become so ingrained in many football fans over the last year, that they might have unconsciously hypnotised a large portion of them, causing them to react with distress when a real crowd reaches a certain decibel level.

"I'm certainly leaning towards this theory at the moment", Weary told us, "I don't know how those fake crowd noises were recorded, but perhaps certain rhythms were specially calibrated and repeated to create a hypnotic effect. Maybe it wouldn't of worked on 99.9% of the population, but it just so happened that some of the other 0.1% somehow were in Wembley stadium. I'm not here to provide an explanation or propagate conspiracy theories, but perhaps this was all some sort of sick experiment by the government, like the Russian sleep experiment, or herd immunity, but what would I know? I teach Latin, for God's sake. Why am I even here? Discede et numquam redito!"

All of the 230 fans have since been taken in for questioning, which has raised concerns over their safety. Barbara Partland, whose husband Geoff is in custody, is concerned about the incident and what it might mean for the group of fans. "My poor Geoff, he was so confused, and so angry. One moment he was silent and just being a normal fan, then the next minute he's throwing punches at the air like someone's attacking him. I don't know what happened, it was like a switch had suddenly been flicked. Boris was in the stadium, laughing his head off at what was happening to us. I wouldn't be surprised if he was in on this. This is what Etonians get off on, booking a huge recording studio to record 50,000 fans individually making noise, then deliberately distorting the sounds so as to induce hypnosis and violent mania with the help of leading experts in psychological warfare, then using this sound in every football broadcast for 10 months, then seeing fans inside a stadium fall prey to the hypnosis, then imprison those fans and experiment on their brains, fucking Etonian scumbags."

One of these men is destined to become a future prime minister, or a crook, or both

Other scientists think the fans may have just been letting off some steam, and that the crowd noises were somehow buried deep within their subconscious, provoking them to lash out. "I watched a lot of football matches with those crowd noises inserted in" Prof. Marilyn De Arrivederci of Swansea University told us, "and, even I have to admit, some of the voices I heard were awful, I mean, they were utter jerks, I ended up muting the telly because I kept hearing this one guy singing out of tune, that's enough to provoke violence, in my opinion. But what do I know? I teach Arabic, for God's sake. اتركوا مكتبي ، أيها الأوغاد!"

One theory has come forward that England fans in general are prone to violence, and the non-existence of any recognisable foe isn't going to stop that. "We love a good skirmish" thinks Partland, "Geoff often comes home from a match bloody and wounded, high on adrenaline, and that's just after watching a school game. He's a very passionate and involved parent, you've got to understand. Or, at least he would be, if we had a child."

England fans have a long and illustrious history of violence, at home and abroad. Fans were involved in street violence back at the last Euros in 2016 in France, and back in the 1980s and 90s, towns on the continent feared the arrival of the English like one might fear Piers Morgan entering a swimming pool full of Tom Daleys. 

"I don't really care what the press think, those fake crowd noises had it coming, you may not see why it upsets us so much, but it does, we have to let this energy out, Geoff works his fingers to the bone week in, week out, and is paid a pittance for it, his boss is an arsehole and his wife is a massive nag! ha, ha! He needs the release, no matter how primal and chaotic it must look to the more refined viewers, who'd want to be refined anyway? If it means being unable to experience the rich and glorious pallet of emotions one is infinitely blessed with, why should one try to hide it? England are back, and we're gonna win this damn tournament". *

Researchers have warned against broadcasters, including BBC and ITV, using fake crowd noises again in the event of another national lockdown. "The number of fans who engage in violence with these imaginary noises could rise threefold, we strongly advise broadcasters to cover the matches in silence, as the inclusion of fake crowd noises could lead to social unrest and ultimately anarchy". 

Several anarchist figures have claimed the noises could come in useful though, in overthrowing the capitalist status quo, abolishing the monarchy and mounting Jacob Rees-Mogg's body, top hat and all, on a makeshift gallows on Parliament Square. "If they want to provoke unrest, we will show them unrest, we're not comfortable with the system, and we, the people, have the power to resist it. Rees-Mogg, we're coming for you!"

* England went on to lose the final to Italy, no incidences of England fan/fake crowd noise violence have been reported, though Sir Keir Starmer was present in the crowd, and could be seen wearing an earpiece and fingering a mysterious device in his pocket. 

Sir Keir Starmer is a supporter of Arsenal Football Club, and will reportedly swap jobs with manager Mikel Arteta if neither's job goes to plan. 

Desert Island Discs to End 79-Year Stint On BBC Radio After Island Becomes Inhospitable to Human Life

29th January 1942: Vic Oliver, actor and comedian, becomes the first 'castaway' on a new BBC radio show called 'Desert Island Discs'. Roy Plumley, the first of many presenters whose voices have become instantly recognisable to John Bull and his middle-class equivalent Jonathan Cattle, asks Mr. Oliver to choose eight pieces of music, a book and a luxury item he would want with him were he to be cast away on a hypothetical desert island. 

I think it's safe to say the concept caught on. The show has been an ever present on BBC radio for over eight decades, inviting the cream of the crop of British public figures, having broadcast over 3,000 episodes. The show's longevity is a testament to it's subtle yet endlessly intriguing pulling power, and the sheer inventiveness and ingenuity of it's premise. 

"One can get bored of straight-down-the-line celebrity interviews" opines Wallace Worsley, deadbeat uncle of BBC regular Lucy, "but if one adds a spicy and offbeat premise such as being marooned on a fictional desert island, and needing to pick which pieces of music, which book and which luxury item one would want to take, it adds a certain thrill to an otherwise banal interview. One sits in suspense, pregnant with anticipation, wondering which book notorious book-worm Gyles Brandreth will choose to take. There's a certain degree of unbridled sexual relish which comes with knowing what music celebrities enjoy and guessing what their strategy will be! They are just like us after all! I would know, my niece is a celebrity, but she doesn't speak to me anymore. Lucy, this is your uncle, i'm sorry it has to be this way, I know how this looks, speaking to News, News, News, News in the desperate hope of reaching out to you, but I miss you dearly, I miss you boundlessly, you're breaking my heart and I'm running out of time. I need financial support, no, please don't stop reading! I need it, not only for myself, but for my partner, Elaine. She's a recovering alcoholic, Lucy, and she needs a liver transplant, I know that this may not seem sympathetic, but she's a good person, an honest person, she wouldn't ask this of anyone, so I feel it's my duty to speak up for her. She's in a terrible state and your support would really help us. Please do not ignore me, I know NNNN will probably edit this out of their finished article, but on the off chance they don't, help me. Help me, oh, dear lord above, help me!"

The show has had five presenters over the years and is currently presented by Lauren Laverne. The BBC have always regarded it as a steady and stable hit over the years, the prestige around the show has made it untouchable. Until now. 

Actor Sir Mark Rylance was due to appear on the show on the 5th July, he was sent a limousine by the BBC to his home in Lambeth. "I was looking forward to it!" Rylance told us, "I grew up listening to DID, a lot of us did, it's sort of the holy grail of interviews. I don't give many interviews but DID is different, I think there's a lot of joy in it, a lot of excitement. I've been deliberating for weeks over what pieces of music I should pick. It's a serious thing. But it's also a great amount of fun"

Rylance then received a call from the BBC explaining that due to unforeseen circumstances, the show will not go ahead. "I was a little taken aback, but I understood, I didn't really question it because I thought there must have been a straightforward reason. When I found out the real reason whilst watching BBC News at Six, I just bellowed out the words 'Christ's marauding cock! What in God's great taint is happening here?' I don't usually swear like that, but the news was so bizarre, it just spilled out of me."

The BBC announced that the eponymous island in Desert Island Discs had become inhospitable to humans and the show had to immediately be cancelled. The news was greeted with what one Daily Telegraph columnist called 'a subdued middle-class hysteria which manifests itself in frenzied letter writing". 

"If i'm being totally honest with you, I thought it was a hypothetical island." thought Rylance. According to polls, 97% of the British public thought the same, the other 3% were flat-Earthers, Jehovah's Witnesses, paranoid schizophrenics and GB News viewers. It turns out, the Island is real. Geographers have labored hard to pinpoint exactly where the island is, but to no avail. "You'd think in this age of satellites and submarines that you'd be able to find any island if you have enough resources and man-power, but we've just not been able to locate the Island in Desert Island Discs", explained Larkin Mann, a pseudo-geographer who searches for fictional islands. "Over the years, i've shook hands with Robinson Crusoe, been given a tour of Atlantis on the back of a dolphin, been an extra on Lost and been molested by a hoard of sex-starved Mermen. Locating this particular island is my only failure, but we all fail, even Lucy Worsley's uncle."

The new BBC Director-General Tim Davie made a statement saying that global warming was the culprit behind the evacuation of the island. Davie explained that the BBC had managed to locate almost all of the celebrities the company had marooned on the island, but that a few were still missing. "I am sure the public will have been shocked to learn of the developments on the island on Desert Island Discs. Let me assure you that we are doing our utmost to rescue the celebrities, including John Cleese, still marooned on the island."

Several commentators have noted that most of the celebrities who've appeared on the show are safe and well, and will attest to never having beeen aware of an actual island, but the BBC insists a timely and costly rescue operation is needed. An appeal is currently being aired every week night after The One Show asking for funds to search for Trevor Nunn's haggard, sand-shocked corpse strewn awkwardly in a shallow rock-pool being gnawed at by crustaceans. Mary Berry and several other notable guests have protested the 'blatant intrusion' and 'scare-mongering' carried out by the corporation. "We are perfectly fine, I am absolutely aghast at the way this very costly public campaign has been carried out. I appeared on the show years ago and never visited any island, and now I keep receiving texts from my friends and Paul Hollywood asking if i'm OK because they've seen some emotional appeal on the London Underground. This needs to stop!" Berry exclaimed. 

However, a handful of former guests have expressed delight that the BBC are finally taking notice of their plight and think the issue needs to be brought to the fore. Naturalist Chris Packham is 'in two minds' over the existence of the island, but thinks the wider issue of climate change should be the focus. "The truth is, in the next 50 years or so, there will be areas on our planet which are now heavily populated that will become too hot for Human civilisation. The politicians do not seem to understand this and even if they did, I fear it is too late, what's happened on the island from Desert Island Discs is terrifying, utterly terrifying, but it is merely foreshadowing a much larger problem that may come to define the 21st century. Think of the migrant crises of the last 10 years, people fleeing violence and terrorism which then gives rise to far-right nationalism and xenophobia. Think of that but ten times worst, people will be forced to leave their own countries with their families because they are simply unsustainable to live in, they'll be unable to grow food, unable to have access to water. This is a crisis, a slow-burning, no pun intended, crisis, and the Desert Island Discs island is just chapter one."

Labour leader Keir Starmer has said he supports Packham's message, but is bewildered by the existence of an actual island. "I've listened to DID for years, and rather enjoyed it, but I would have enjoyed it far less if I knew the guests actually had to be cast away. I think, among other things, this crisis shows the extent to which the Tory austerity of the last ten years has stripped away the BBC's capacity to safely handle a hypothetical concept without resorting to literal-minded programming. Under a Labour government, concepts such as these will be backed consistently, and metaphors won't be forced to somehow flourish into reality. This is fucking ridiculous. Just make me prime minister already."

Andrew Neil of GB News has called the situation a 'scathing indictment of BBC scare-mongering and climate change virtue-signalling', but footage recently released showed Neil being lifted from treacherous waters into a dinghy full of former DID guests, which may serve as a smoking gun with which to silence critics calling the crisis 'fake'. 

The general public are unsure whether to believe that this is a BBC propaganda campaign, or a genuine cry for help from hundreds of beloved British public figures. Martha Hills of Guildford doesn't know what to believe. "When celebrities are involved, the water becomes murky, murky I tells' ya'! I have no idea what to believe, are there people out there who need our help escaping from an island too hot for Human habitation? Or is this some elaborate metaphor with an underlying cynicism? Or maybe it's satire? Is this satire? Is that what this is? What's the deal with Lucy Worsley's uncle? Why is he included in this?  I don't know. Honestly, i'm not all that bothered personally, i'm just glad England are in the final of a major tournament, and that we can hug our family again."

Daily Mail Reader Blames Pothole Problem On ' Local Council Culture'.

The Daily Mail, Britain's leading newspaper, and a bastion of free speech, debate, and fervent anti-censorship has received a strongly-worded letter from a regular reader complaining of a lack of investment in local infrastructure, particularly potholes, blaming the problem on the much-feared 'council culture'.

The term 'council culture'* first originated in the 16th century in a letter between Henry VIII and Thomas Cromwell. The king claims that Thomas More is attempting to 'council' him by standing firm against Henry's separation from the Catholic church. 

"Methinks the fellow is a most abhorrent snowflake. He Councilleth me, I am sure of it. This Culture of Councilling is preposterous and it demeans our sacred rights to free speech. I want to abide in a land where a beggar may call the king a fat, farting, bloated waste of God's infinite material and only suffer minimal execution and not be councilled, for it is better to be hung, drawn and quartered than to be councilled. I wouldst not wish my worst enemy be councilled, good sir, and I hope thou wilt make sure Andrew Neil gets really stuck in to the issue. Like, really stuck into it, like a good juicy fillet of steak. Really stuck into it". 

It is alleged that the term then entered common parlance and was used by Hugh Faringdon, the last abbot to preside over Reading Abbey before Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries, before he was hung, drawn and quartered in 1539.

"Let God be my witness! This culture of council doth shackle our very souls! I go to my death as a martyr for the right to free speech! Our judges and our ministers are woketh beyond belief! My dying wish is that Laurence Fox fights for us on Twitter by retweeting Roger Scruton quotes, and that Katie Hopkins becometh the star attraction of Parler."

Leaping forward a couple centuries, Samuel Johnson authored a piece in The Rambler deriding what he called the 'spinning frame generation', i.e those who had been born after Richard Arkwright's invention of the spinning frame, for their entitled nature and their lack of appreciation for the hard work and toil  previous generations had undergone. 

"This entire generation is vacuous beyond belief! Their styles and their customs grate on me in the most unpleasant fashion. They seem to expect the world to be catered towards them and have little to no idea of other people's lives outside of their own liberal, metropolitan, PC, woke, Depop, Yo! Sushi! bubbles. In fact, I hate them, I cannot work with them. I will not work with anyone under the age of 35 because I know they'll belong to the spinning frame generation. Our only hope is that Count Dankula will continue to fight political correctness by teaching pelicans to imitate Josef Mengele or by teaching narwhals to racially abuse Raheem Sterling on Twitter".

Johnson and a handful of other 18th century writers advocated for a 'Council Culture Eradication Council' for the "councilling of councellatory beliefs by an all-powerful, all-seeing council made up of councilled councillors". Such a council was never formed, but commentators have recently raised the possibility of such a council being formed by an independent counsel. 

The term has become common parlance once again in the last decade or so, and Dorothy Oates of Tunbridge Wells, Kent's letter to her local council is only the tip of the iceberg.

"I'm sick of it, to be honest with you. I have to take my four children to school every morning and dodge all these blasted potholes. I'm even more careful than usual now because my last car was written off due to the constant damage done to the suspension. I have very kindly asked my local council for help, but they just reply 'we're sorry, but the issue is very difficult to fix', it's total council culture of the most malicious kind. so I decided to council my bin collection and we have, these past seven weeks, been living in rubbish. I hope NNNN takes a photo of my four young children reading discarded 'World According to Clarkson' books, I hope the world sees the horrors we have to put up with."

Oates, 45, is a regular reader of The Daily Mail and has praised the publication for bringing council culture to the attention of ordinary British citizens.

"I think it used to be quite a niche term, but The Mail and The Sun have really brought them into public consciousness, even to the point where my Mum and Dad know what 'woke' means. Isn't it amazing that a word which originated in African-American communities and which used to mean something, is now used by little old us in the home counties? Good ol' Mail, I say, good ol' Mail, they ain't taking any of it, they'll strip any word or concept of meaning and humanity, they'll stamp on those woke hearts and impale them on a wooden stake, burning them alongside the last morsels of human kindness and compassion, they ain't afraid to do that, and that's why we love reading it". 

Oates subscribes to a YouTube channel known as 'Scalp the Wokes' (STW) which aims to protect free speech, statues, the monarchy and the right to deny children life-saving vaccines. Their YouTube show 'Gammonunition' features a plethora of different voices from Anglican bishops to Catholic priests. Oates recently called into the host Alex Shaffer, who used to clean tripods in the military, to complain about council culture and 5G controlling our minds. Shaffer then launched into a tirade during which he burst a blood vessel, then suffered what one Mumsnet user called 'a massive fuck-off heart attack'. Oates has been blamed by other STW viewers for Shaffer's heart attack, and, according to sources, is being sued by the channel for overwhelming the host with too many infuriating council culture stories. 

No one knows exactly how this council culture debacle is going to end, or whom is going swoop in and save the day. All we know is, council culture has become it's own theatre of war in the so called 'culture wars', and we all have our allegiances and enemies. War is raging. "Daddy, what did you do in the culture war?" Would you want your children to ask you this? I think not. 

* For the purposes of this article, we have had to use the phrase 'council culture' instead of 'cancel culture', as the latter has been trademarked by News Corp. 

News, News, News, News, DINES!, DINES!, DINES!, DINES! With AA Gill Jr.: 'Pasta Sottovoce' in Cromer, Norfolk

My father always wanted me to get on the straight and narrow and make something of myself. With this new column, I think i've just about got there. 

NNNNDDDD will basically be a standard food critic's column, but with a twist, every restaurant I visit and review will have ear-splitting music blaring from the speakers above. Recent studies at the University of Cockfosters, Berkeley have shown that our taste buds react to piercingly loud noises by becoming more sensitive and responsive to flavour. Scientists conducted an experiment in which Nigella Lawson, Gordon Ramsay and Ainsley Harriot underwent brain scans whilst dining on a 5 star meal from a Michelin star restaurant. As they dined, 'I Spit On Your Clavicle' by Unctuous Pirate Stigmata is played on repeat at a horrendously loud volume. 

The scientists found that the three chefs responded far more positively neurologically to the food they had eaten when the music was playing. Of course, they could have just asked the three award-winning chefs what they thought of the food, instead of forcing them to undergo brain scans, but the scientists thought it necessary. 

The results, anyway, showed that the only way Humans can fully enjoy and savour the food we eat is to eat it whilst subjected to at least 120 decibels of noise. With that in mind, I visited 'Pasta Sottovoce' in beautiful Cromer, Norfolk, a new Italian restaurant opened by Alessandro Miadini and his wife Isabella from Bologna. 

Pasta Sottovoce, Cromer, Norfolk

AS ONE WALKS INTO ISABELLA AND ALESSANDRO MIADINI'S NEW RESTAURANT ON NEWMARKET STREET, ONE IS STRUCK BY THE AUTHENTICITY OF THE PLACE. MANY SO CALLED 'ITALIAN' RISTORANTES IN THE UK ARE SHAMEFULLY SUPERFICIAL AND FULL OF PETTY STEREOTYPES, BUT THIS FEELS FRESH AND REAL, LIKE ONE IS TRANSPORTED INTO A GENUINE BOLOGNESE EATERY, EVERY SIGHT, SOUND AND SMELL MEANT TO ENHANCE ONE'S CULINARY EXPERIENCE. 

EXPERIENCE IS CERTAINLY A KEY WORD HERE, THE MIADINIS TAKE GREAT CARE IN DESIGNING THEIR RISTORANTES IN SUCH A WAY AS TO MAXIMISE THEIR DINER'S JOY, THOSE WORKING IN THE SERVICE INDUSTRY PRACTICE A DELICATE AND HUGELY UNDERRATED ART FORM. ONE IS MADE TO FEEL SPECIAL, AS IF ONE IS THE ONLY CUSTOMER IN THE WORLD. AS I WAS LED THROUGH TO THE DINING AREA, PASSING THROUGH A RUSTIC CONCRETE ARCHWAY ADORNED WITH VINE LEAVES AND FRESH LEMONS, I FELT LIKE AN ADORED MEMBER OF THE LOCAL COMMUNITY, LIKE A FEARED MAFIOSO ENTERING HIS RISTORANTE WITH AN ESTEEMED LOCAL BUSINESSMAN HE'S TRYING TO ASSOCIATE WITH IN HOPE OF GAINING MORE INFLUENCE IN THE FINANCIAL STRATA OF THE CITY. 

FOR STARTERS I ORDERED SOME BRUSCHIETTA AND A SMALL DISH OF CROUTONS. I RECEIVED A FEW BAFFLED LOOKS WHEN I TOSSED A CROUTON INTO THE AIR AND TRIED TO CATCH IT IN MY MOUTH, BUT THE WAITERS SOON LEARNED TO TOLERATE MY UNCOUTH BEHAVIOUR, EVEN EGGING ME ON TO TRY AGAIN WHEN IT FAILED TO ENTER THE ORIFICE. I THEN HAD A NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE WHEN I ALMOST CHOKED ON A FIDDLEHEAD WHICH GIACOMO, ONE OF THE DISHWASHERS, CATAPULTED FROM ACROSS THE ROOM. A BAFFLED PASSER-BY PERFORMED THE HEINLICH MANEUVER AMIDST THE PIERCINGLY-LOUD MUSIC STILL PULSATING FROM ABOVE. WHEN THE MEDICAL EMERGENCY WAS OVER, WE HAD A RATHER CRUDE BUT INTENSELY SPIRITED TOURNAMENT BETWEEN ALL THE WAITERS AND KITCHEN STAFF. THE TOURNAMENT DELAYED THE ARRIVAL OF MY MAIN COURSE, WHICH, WITHOUT TRYING TO BE A KILLJOY, WAS RATHER INCONVENIENT, BUT I'LL LET IT SLIDE AS I ADMIRE UNBRIDLED, RAUCOUS, SAVAGE MERRIMENT WHICH DELAYS IMPORTANT BUSINESS, IT'S WHY I WATCH PRIME MINISTER'S QUESTIONS EVERY WEDNESDAY. 

MY MAIN COURSE OF MUSHROOM RAVIOLI DID EVENTUALLY ARRIVE, AND WAS POSITIVELY MOUTH-WATERING. THERE WAS JUST THE RIGHT AMOUNT OF SPINACH.. THE PASTA WAS WELL-CRAFTED, THE PLATE WAS SQUARE AND FANCY. I FIND THE SQUARE PLATES, FOR SOME REASON, IMPROVE THE QUALITY OF THE FOOD. 

I MUST LEVEL WITH YOU, NNNN FAITHFUL, I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT FOOD. I'VE DINED AT MANY A REPUTABLE ESTABLISHMENT, BEING THE SON OF A RENOWNED FOOD CRITIC, BUT I PICKED UP VERY LITTLE. I'M NOT ENTIRELY SURE WHY, MAYBE IT'S A REBELLIOUS THING, I WANTED TO BE A SPOKEN WORD POET, OR A NORSE GOD, BUT FATHER HAD OTHER PLANS, THEY OFTEN DO. HE WOULD MAKE ME SIT AT A TYPEWRITER FOR HOURS ON END, TEDIOUSLY TYPING OUT HIS RESTAURANT REVIEWS AS HE DICTATED THEM TO ME WHILST ENGAGED IN RIGOROUS LOVE-MAKING. HE BECAME LAUDED FOR HIS WIT, EBULLIENCE AND SHARPNESS, BUT NO ONE REALISES THAT IT WAS ME WHO ADDED THIS INSATIABLE PANACHE TO THE ARTICLES. THE 1992 REVIEW OF SIR LOIN'S STEAKS IN MARYLEBONE? ME! THE 2001 REVIEW OF TOFFS AND SCOFFS IN NEWCASTLE UNDER-LYME? ME! 2003, JAMIE'S IN OXFORD? ME! 2005, ALAIN DUCASSE AT THE DORCHESTER HOTEL? ME! ME! ME! ALL OF IT WAS ME!

SO WHEN I WAS APPROACHED BY THE NNNN EDITOR TO DO A FOOD COLUMN IN MEMORY OF MY FATHER, I WAS ONLY TOO HAPPY TO OBLIGE, ON THE CONDITION THAT I COULD EXPERIMENT WITH A NEW AND INNOVATIVE FORM OF FOOD CRITICISM. NNNN, BEING AN OPEN-MINDED PUBLICATION, LET ME TRY OUT THE 'BURST EARDRUM/TASTEBUD THEORY', WHICH ORIGINATED AT UNIVERSITY OF COCKFOSTERS, BERKELEY. AFTER FINISHING MY MEAL AT 'PASTA SOTTOVOCE', I CAN REVEAL THAT IT'S ALL TRUE. THE FLAVOUR IN THE FOOD IS BLISSFULLY ACCENTUATED BY THE DISGUSTING DEATH METAL RAGING FROM ABOVE LIKE A HANGRY THOR. IT IS WORTH THE DEAFNESS, IT IS WORTH THE CLUSTER HEADACHES, IT IS WORTH THE BLOOD ON MY PILLOWS, IT IS WORTH THE SHELL-SHOCK. AND THAT IS THE HIGHEST COMPLIMENT ONE CAN GIVE A RESTAURANT. GRAZIE, ALESSANDRO E ISABELLA!

JOIN ME NEXT TIME WHEN I VISIT 'HUSH! HUSH! SUSHI!' IN BETHNAL GREEN. 

GB News Will Feature a Show Called 'Wokewatch'- Muriel Sticks

This is not a parody article, they're actually doing that. 

The demand for 'anti-woke' content will prove very lucrative to Andrew Neil and co. $$$

I would include a joke, but comedy is dead, it's been euthanised.

They'll be lapping it up. 

We'll be reading the wonderful works of James Baldwin, Maya Angelou & Toni Morrison. 

Nothing will change, the so-called 'culture war' will whimper on. 

I'm Muriel Sticks, may the Duke of Edinburgh rest in peace or whatever. 

Betting Odds for Wokewatch Presenter

Laurence Fox 2/1 

Another Fucking Cunt 10/1

Princess Eugenie and Jack Brooksbank's 'Tell-All' Interview With Oprah Winfrey Went Unreported By all Major News Sources

Amidst the media furore surrounding Meghan and Prince Harry's explosive interview with Oprah Winfrey late last month, another royal couple were also planning to cause quite the stir. News, News, News, News can exclusively reveal that Princess Eugenie, daughter of Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson, and her relatively new husband Jack Brooksbank, also gave a prime time interview with Winfrey in the US last month. 

The reason you, the reader, probably knew nothing about this interview is down to the fact that NNNN is the first major news source to report it. The reason for this remains unclear, although there are murmurs that many of the major newspapers around the world deemed Jack and Eugenie less bankable than Meghan and Harry, therefore refusing to cover their interview. 

NNNN's royal correspondent Lurpac De Moine received this bombshell-adjacent news when one of Brooksbank's representatives phoned him to ask why people weren't talking about their interview. De Moine was utterly aghast and confused, "Well, I hadn't heard about it. I was busy looking through Meghan's second cousin once-removed's garbage cans in Cancun looking for potential material for a story, I wasn't paying attention to the minor royals, who is? Perverts, obsessed fans, pedants & satirists, no one serious." 

De Moine was then told by the minor royal's representatives to inform the higher powers at NNNN, and after the editor returned from their annual trip to Bohemian Grove, permission was given to write this exclusive article. 

"I just cannot believe such a huge news story would pass by unnoticed" De Moine told us, "I realise Meghan and Harry are obviously going to be the centre of attention, or 'center' of attention, as Meghan would say (blasted Yanks). But still, no matter how obscure Jack and Eugenie are, them giving a soul-searching, explosive, controversy-laden interview with Oprah Winfrey is pretty important news. Even Piers Morgan didn't tweet about it, that must have been a real slap in the face for the couple, Morgan has his finger on the pulse of the average Brit more than any other media figure". 

In the interview, which is available online, albeit after a taxing, hour-long search, Jack and Eugenie describe the appalling racism they encountered on a grouse-hunting trip with a certain 'senior member' of the Royal family. 

"This 'member' shot a grouse from out the sky" recalled Eugenie, "then leant over to me and said "It's a shame, my girl, that these blackamoors and Chinamen cannot fly, otherwise we'd be able to shoot them instead of the birds!" 

"He also took my husband aside on Christmas eve and took him to a secret room in Balmoral where he keeps all kinds of racist memorabilia such as a Lord Haw-Haw scarecrow, an Oswald Mosley tea cosy, a trombone with Enoch Powell's Rivers of Blood speech inscribed on the horn, a Strom Thurmond mini-fridge packed with mini chocolate Klan hats, a fairground fortune teller machine with Joseph Goebbels spouting Nazi propaganda for 1d, a Tommy Robinson windbreaker, an ice sculpture of Liam Neeson attacking a black man, Katie Hopkins yoga mats, extra strong apartheid mints, a model of the Lincoln Memorial but with Robert E. Lee, a dozen live 1970s-era skinhead football hooligans and Donald Trump Jr.'s book 'Triggered: How the Left Thrives on Hate and Wants to Silence Us". 

"My husband was traumatised by what he saw and immediately told me that he wanted to leave. We then felt completely ashamed and confused and angry, but most of all, scared. How could we stand up to this? It's the British royal family, 'the firm', 'the Windsor Headhunters', one cannot simply leave this family but this is what we decided to do. Turns out Meghan and Harry got there first."

The couple decided to contact Winfrey as they needed an experienced and compassionate interviewer more than anything else, and Piers Morgan was too busy tweeting about Meghan Markle's perceived vanity. 

"Oprah was amazing! She agreed to interview us, but did not tell us that she was also interviewing Harry and Meghan. We thought we'd cause quite an intense national conversation, so it was quite a shock when no major newspaper covered our interview".

De Moine, who is still being inundated by calls from the tabloids asking about the Queen's state of mind, is indifferent to the minor royals' interview, "Look, British Royalists/Conservatives only have a limited reserve of spite and anger, most of that was directed at Meghan and Harry. Throw Eugenie and Brooksbank into the mix, it becomes almost an overload of treason. A lot of bad stuff can happen and slip under the radar when ordinary folk are up in arms about something completely irrelevant. Matt Hancock, anyone?"

Britain's reaction to the Meghan and Harry interview is said to expose generational divides between older royalists, who favour tradition, subordination and the Queen, and younger roundheads, who are capable of empathy and understand what racism is. 

The interview was broadcast on Howard Hughes' little known network the Hughes Network in the US, but the programme gained only 300 viewers, mainly due to the fact that the Hughes Network is only available in a small fishing community in Alaska. Bill Hughes, a local fisherman in Nor'easterville, Alaska, shared his thoughts on the programme with NNNN. 

"Well, I'd just caught a 20Ib pike, so anything else that happened that day was guaranteed to be anti-climactic. Look, Mr Newspaperman, we don't get much television round these parts, and we consider that a good thing. We work and toil and fish and struggle and sweat every day, then this young, rich British couple are shown on our screens all made-up and looking a billion dollars, excuse us if we don't give a damn about it. Though I will say this, that Prince Phillip sounds like a racist moron, and you just know it's Phillip, don't you? 'Senior member' my ass, it's definitely Phillip. But other than that, we don't care, now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to make love to my wife, I caught a 20Ib Halibut earlier, that son of a bitch has made my year, so you betcha' i'm celebrating". 

NNNN asked Buckingham Palace for comment, but only received a voicemail advertising Prince Andrew's Hampton Court Palace laser tag tournament hosted by Lucy Worsley.

Dear Eileen: I Have a Sharp Kettle Chip Lodged in my Trachea, What Action Should I Take to Rid My Internal Plumbing of This Unwelcome Guest?

My name is (fmr) Sister Eileen Kirkup. I am 76 years old and I am a lapsed nun. I enjoy shrimping and baking.

This week's question comes from Alison in Peterborough. Alison Asks, "Dear Eileen, I have a sharp kettle chip lodged in my trachea, what action should I undertake to rid my internal plumbing of this unwelcome guest?"

My Child,

Before I give you advice pertaining to your urgent and very frightening medical emergency, I feel it's my duty to first of all provide a little backstory to my life and my understanding of the medical profession. Whilst training to be a nun at the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, a frightful incident occurred to the young boys training in the firing range. Many of the poor souls were injured and we sisters were tasked with stitching up their wounds and bringing them porridge, Rustler magazines and PG Tips. 

It was while caring for a lovely young chap named Edward, who'd been shot thrice in his abdomen, that I had an epiphany: I am destined to be a nurse!

Now, at that point, I was already deep into my nun training. I was sharing this 3-bedroom flat with Sisters Yvonne and Clara, still close, close friends of mine, and life was pretty much sorted out for me. We'd be nurses for 70 years, before retiring in our late 90s. We'd then proceed to travel the World spreading the word of God in deprived, poverty-stricken areas, telling them to avoid condoms etc. We had it all planned out, good heavens, how romantic and bursting with life the young mind is! Such big ambitions, it seemed so simple, my child, but, as the saying goes, 'try telling God your plans and he laughs'. 

But the responsibility of nursing, the nuances of the role, the sense of importance and the sense of duty, it quickly became addictive. This was how I wanted to help others. It was, quite simply, the coolest thing i'd ever experienced. And I wanted to be the best nurse that I could be. This was my duty now, not nunning. 

Of course, my child, the elder sisters would not have it. I spent 3 months in 'pandemonium', which, to explain it basically, was a giant, wooden, spherical machine which functioned like a washing machine. One was placed in it, along with piles of dirty nun clothing and the odd scorpion, and two sisters would manually push the unfortunate sinner around until ye can bear no more, no more, no more, please sisters! No more! I beg of you! &^&$%*!!

Sorry about that, my child, this particular article is bringing back vicious memories. In truth, I was one of the lucky ones. Many young women I knew suffered such unbearable darkness, such malign, wretched sorrow. It was a rotten experience, but one which takes up a large part of the needlework in the tapestry of my life. One cannot just burn that portion of the tapestry, even if one, on occasion, stands beside said tapestry holding a candle, tempting oneself to let the candle inch dangerously close to the material, which gives one a palpable sense of excitement which perplexes one. One cannot just 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' away portions of their lives, no matter how convenient and comforting such an act would be. I love that film, my child, Kate Winslet's character is my 'spirit animal' as you youngsters would say. 

I became a Nun, my child. And I was good at it. I was honest, true to my fellow sisters, to my fellow man and, of course, to God. But several crises, which I shall have to go into in a later column, forced my exit from that life. I did eventually become a nurse though, my child, when I was living in Mexico in the 90s. Not for a public hospital, but rather for another organised group of individuals who often got tangled up in all sorts of violence, and needed their own medics. I was only too happy to help, though, as you can imagine, my child, one is not allowed to divulge much. 

So, my child, you can trust me when it comes to medical expertise, you needn't worry about that. You've come to the right person, and I would very much like to assist you in your hour of need! So, let me see.. kettle chip lodged in your trachea.. oh my! Well, my child, It looks like i've been terribly foolish. I've been waffling on about my medical experience whilst you've been choking and spluttering about, gasping for air!

Well, my child, I must apologise for my incessant proselytizing, it may have proved fatal for you. Still, my child, at least the kettle chip is no longer a problem!

Yours Truly,

Eileen

Margaret Thatcher's Consciousness to be Uploaded to the Sun in the UK

Former prime minister Margaret Thatcher, Britain's first female prime minister and perhaps the most universally adored public figure from the past century, will have her consciousness uploaded to the British sun in a project announced by the Conservative Party this morning. 

The project, which has been kept top secret for 8 years since Thatcher's death in 2013, will cost the taxpayer in excess of £800 billion, and will require a new 'Thatcher tax' to keep the Iron Lady gleefully beaming down on us from the sky. 

As mentioned before, News, News, News, News does not possess a sufficient amount of scientific know-how, and knows next to nothing about artificial intelligence, computationalism, sentience, physics, consciousness or neuroscience, but, needless to say, the science involved in this procedure is very clever indeed.

Ever since the trail-blazing prime minister died in April 2013, the science wing of CPHQ (Conservative Party HQ) has stored Mrs Thatcher's brain in freezing cold temperatures. Despite requests by several leading scientists to transform her body into a Minotaur, her most ardent supporters within the party managed to keep hold of her. The PM at the time, David Cameron, gave the go ahead on the top secret project, and has said today that he's 'chuffed to bits' that it's finally come to fruition. 

"Well, I think many people will be delighted to learn that Mrs Thatcher will be making a return to British public life in a way no prime minister ever has. I've kept this secret for almost 8 years, and I will admit, it's been pretty hard to do so! But, finally we'll be able to look up into the sky and marvel at this truly remarkable woman. Let this be our gift to you, the great British public! Hazaar!"

According to reports, Mrs Thatcher's face will be visible on the sun during daylight hours, including her iconic hair and much-maligned nose. The iron lady will be able to speak also. In a press release this morning it was confirmed that she'll also sing. 

"Mrs Thatcher's voice is iconic, it is, one might say, the voice of the nation. Mrs Thatcher will sing her heart out each and every day. At dawn, she'll break in to a marvelous rendition of 'Ave Maria', at luncheon she'll perform a spine-tingling version of 'Jerusalem', 'Zadok the Priest' will be our early afternoon treat and 'Read All About It' by Emeli Sande will be her evening performance."

It is not yet known how often Mrs Thatcher will speak during daytime hours, but several pundits have suggested that, despite being invisible, she'll also be able to speak at nighttime. Jacob Rees-Mogg privately told colleagues that she'll bark her infamous words "No! No! No!" on a continuous loop during the night. These three words send quivers of halcyonic calm through every Briton's spine, and is expected to cool the raging tempers of those who wish to disobey the British state. 

Thatcher performing the infamous 'Tory Haka' at the party conference in 1981. 

It's also being reported that Mrs Thatcher will bellow out many more of her famous sayings, such as "The lady's not for turning!", "it may be the cock that grows, but it is the hen that lays the eggs" and "Yet I do fear thy school, it is too full o' the milk of human kindness to catch the nearest way".

Current PM, Boris Johnson has hailed the project as an example of 'supreme British ingenuity' and 'patriotic, capitalist energy'. "I think I speak for everyone in the country when I say how happy I am to welcome Mrs Thatcher back into daily life. I remember when I was a student visiting Downing Street when Margaret was in power, I shook hands with the woman and haven't washed it since. I was shaking hands with COVID patients on the 3rd of March last year, and they were delighted to receive some authentic, Thatcherite, privatised, free market DNA. Hazaar!"

The new initiative will "calm, soothe and subdue the fiery passions of Britain's noisy troublemakers", according to the Conservative Party press release. Said troublemakers, including those currently protesting the government's new policing bill, have accepted that Mrs Thatcher's presence will bring compliance and order. Leader of the opposition, Keir Starmer said in a statement, "This isn't the exact route I would take personally, but if it's what the government want, I will support them fully in their endeavours. Mrs Thatcher was an inspiration to many young woman, on the left, the right, and most importantly, the centre ground, which I have 'marked' as my territory. Hazaar!"

"Everything will be OK" Johnson assured the British public, "Maggie is back! She is watching over us, literally! Her dulcet tones will see us through crisis after crisis, her lungs will fill the sky with great big, bustling, bombastic, brutish, brilliant clouds of good old-fashioned steely, British, bulldog, world-beating, bourgeois, patriotic, powerful resolve and inimitable wit and charm. I will not lie to you, I am getting an erection just thinking about it". 

There are whispers of some members of the public who are not supportive of this highly unusual endeavour, but News, News, News, News interviewed the entire UK population and found no one willing to speak out against it. One older woman did crack a joke, saying "Well, if she's being uploaded to the Sun, we won't see much of her with all this bad British weather! Ha! Ha!"

The Labour Party under Keir Starmer is reportedly in talks with former PMs Tony Blair and Gordon Brown over uploading their consciousness to every single one of Britain's blades of grass to counteract the Tories having Thatcher in the sky. 

The Liberal Democrats want Nick Clegg to be uploaded into the wind to be blown whichever way he chooses. 

The SNP were in talks with Nicola Sturgeon over her transcending into Scotland's waters, but, in a cruel twist of fate, Mrs Sturgeon is now in choppy political waters herself.

As for the remaining parties, the Brexit Party wants Nigel Farage in pork scratchings, the Green Party want Caroline Lucas in wind turbines and UKIP want Tommy Robinson to be King. 

From the Archive: Robert Louis Stevenson Angered By 'Jekyll and Hyde' Fans Swarming 'Kidnapped' Book Signing

From the Archive will dig up old News, News, News, News articles from throughout the publication's history. NNNN has been operating since before historical records began, making it the World's oldest continuously-running newspaper. The origins of NNNN are unknown, but one theory suggests it was created by a cabal of stoned apes who bemoaned the quality of journalism in the prehistoric era. This theory claims that the apes wished to document important events in the lives of their communities, and to investigate and report on major geopolitical crises. 

The first article in this series is dated September 19th 1886, and concerns the Scottish novelist Robert Louis Stevenson.

Robert Louis Stevenson Angered By 'Jekyll and Hyde' Fans Swarming 'Kidnapped' Book Signing

Report by Aaron Kosminski, Whitechapel

This Sunday, novelist and poet Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson attended a book signing at Samuel Johnson & Son's Bookshop in Marylebone. Mr. Stevenson was finely-dressed in a three-piece suit and stovepipe hat. The acclaimed author arrived at the venue 20 minutes early as to avoid the onslaught of  over-zealous literary fans swarming his carriage.

Mr Stevenson's tactic was doomed to failure, though, as the fans had suspected the author's early arrival. The fans, mainly younger ladies from the upper echelons of society, are said to be of a 'reckless disposition' and 'maintain a frenzied devotion to Mr Stevenson'. 

This sudden eruption of popularity for the writer has arisen since the publication of 'The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde' earlier this year. The novella, about a lawyer who investigates strange occurrences between his friend, Dr Henry Jekyll and the evil Edward Hyde, examines the dual nature which is said to exist within us. The concepts portrayed in the book are believed to have excited and mesmerized a particularly enthusiastic contingent of literary young ladies, many of whom have taken to stalking the famous author outside his Edinburgh home. 

One studious young lady told News, News, News, News that she's read the book seventeen times and regularly writes long letters to Mr Stevenson concerning minor, obscure details from the book. "I send Robert fabric from my petticoat, along with a lock of my hair with the letter. It comforts me to think that Robert has touched a part of me. I do so long for his roving hands on my delicate bosom, methinks his hands be delicate and warm and stained with the most expensive ink. I would harpoon threescore and twenty men at sea if it meant sniffing a lock of Robert's hair. I care not for your judging eyes, I am resolved to make an honest man of him, I will have his hand in marriage and if I do see any harlot in his arms, I will slaughter the both of em'". 

Before Mr Stevenson could enter the bookshop, an endless sea of screaming young women propelled themselves onto him and his entourage. The horses that pulled his carriage were spooked and proceeded to rampage through the crowd, rendering 15 dead and many seriously injured. Before the author was able to sign even one copy of his much-anticipated new novel 'Kidnapped', the owner of the bookshop, Mr Harold Pennywise, decided to cut the event short, much to the chagrin of a few older gentlemen and ladies who had been waiting quietly for a signed copy. 

Mr Stevenson was then escorted out through the back entrance with his suit draped over his head to avoid being recognised. This gambit also proved fatal. A few dozen eager fans had suspected Stevenson's escape from this exit and had gathered at the doorway. As the writer exited, one fan leapt onto him and stole his pocket watch, whilst another plunged a quill into his face, asking him to sign her copy of 'Jekyll and Hyde'. Many posters have been erected around town inquiring as to the whereabouts of Mr Stevenson's pocket watch. Only one man, who used the alias 'Jack', has replied, he claims he saw a young maiden hide it in her undergarments, and, upon following her for seven days, witnessed her sell it alongside other wares at the Sunday market. 

When asked by News, News, News, News for comment, Mr Stevenson sent the following short letter:

"Dear Mr Journalist,

You mock me to bring up such a futile and ridiculous matter. There is, in case one hasn't noticed, a severe shortage of ink up here in Scotland, precisely due to the unnecessary and overly-liberal exchange of letters between literary persons. 

But, if I must comment on these farcical proceedings, I feel it necessary to issue a warning to my so-called 'fans'. I am sick to the teeth of finding starved, semi-naked young ladies camping out in the tree in my back garden. I cannot continue to bear witness to the depravity and the torturous obsession that stains these poor women's souls. I am merely a writer, and a man. I should not need seven large pugilists to patrol my estate at nighttime, searching for ladies of ill repute loitering and waiting for me to make an appearance. There once was, I feel implored to admit, a part of me which would have relished such unadulterated female devotion, but when one is in the thick of it, one's standards and one's need for self-preservation take priority over one's ego. 

I feel I also need to remind those fans that I do have other books. My new book, Kidnapped, is currently available in all self-respecting bookshops. I quite literally wrote The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde whilst seated on the privy. It was over in a matter of minutes, I am that good. I could whip out seven or eight 'Jekyll and Hydes' a year and you would all lap it up. Your enthusiasm, whilst strangely flattering and much appreciated, is killing innocent people. And I hope not to open my trusty copy of News, News, News, News every morning and read of more deaths related to my book. Read something else, maybe 'Pamela' by the great Samuel Richardson. But, I implore you, when you discover the joys of Pamela, do not dig up Mr Richardson and steal his pocket watch, you damned thieves!

My Sincere Felicitations,

Robert Louis Stevenson

Poem of the Month: 'Normality' By Oxford University Professor Emeritus of Poetical Evocation and Whimsical Euphony Sir Barnard G. Fentonthwaite

I miss this.

My former colleague Andrew Suction, the current Shadow Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom and a close, personal acquaintance of mine dating back 40 years, introduced this new poetry column last month to great fanfare. I won't lie to you, dear readers, he's become so successful from that one column that cocaine has developed an Andrew Suction habit. 

He's not been seen in his Kensington office in over a month (yes, we poets have offices. Lord Byron used to be that boss who leans over his female colleagues inappropriately whilst helping them on the computer, Percy Shelley would lob balls of paper into the bin and celebrate over-zealously, pissing off his co-workers, and John Keats was the office weirdo who nobody knows outside of work and can often be heard crying in the office toilets) and people are starting to worry.

Let me reassure you, he'll return to his perch when he has one of his 'visions'. Ah yes, the legendary Suction visions. To adequately describe what he looks like when having one of these visions, one needs to cast their mind back to the end of Captain Phillips when Tom Hanks is rescued from the Somali pirates in a traumatised and catatonic state. Imagine that, but without the heroic and intensely moving backdrop of a man having gone through hell to save the lives of his crew, and replace him with a man who hasn't been published in 15 years and cannot please his wife. 

I know I sound bitter, but I can assure you I am not. We two go back a long time. He knows my acid tongue, I know his buttons, he knows mine. We fight, we go back and forth like an old married couple, just like him and his wife, whom he cannot please. 

I cannot stop myself. OK, I'll come clean. I hate his guts. 

But, lest we get carried away, i'm not here to talk Suction. I'm here to provide this month's NNNN 'Poem of the Month'. Last month's poem was terribly underwhelming, and that's not just another shot at old 'Sucker' as we used to call him. It had no recognizable rhythm or flow, it was full of cloying, vapid, nonsensical appeals to emotion, and i'm pretty sure he stole from Auden in one of the verses. It was the work of a man desperate to put his stamp on the 'COVID poetry boom'. Every poet I know has written about the blasted pandemic. It's become a whole category in and of itself, just like WWI poetry. Everyone's spilling ink and jostling to become the COVID era's answer to Wilfred Owen. Suction, at best, will become this era's Ivor Gurney, not because of his poetry, but because Gurney was suspected to have had syphilis, and I regularly see debates on poetry forums about Suction having it.

So let me try and write something that has absolutely nothing to do with COVID, social-distancing, hand gel, toilet rolls, loneliness, grief, despair, numbness, misinformation, depression, addiction or face masks. As Caius Martius Coriolanus so eloquently put it before banishing the plebs for banishing him from Rome (knobhead), "There is a world elsewhere".

Normality

People, everywhere.

Wading through watery crowds,

Waiting for a lull,

I yearn to scratch my back. 

People, everywhere.

Mashed on the tube like Play-Doh,

This is an orgy,

I yearn to scratch my back.

People, everywhere.

I long for solitude and smoking,

My heels are aching,

I yearn to scratch my back.

People, everywhere.

Pungent whiffs of body odour,

marijuana ghosts outside Ladbrokes,

I yearn to scratch my back.

People, everywhere.

I cannot catch my breath,

"Pay as you go with O2",

I yearn to scratch my back.

People, everywhere.

Blurred faces on Millennium Bridge,

Busker plays Ed Sheeran song,

I yearn to scratch his face off.

People, everywhere.

Evening Standard abandoned on bench,

George Osborne's ectoplasm,

I yearn to scratch my back.

People, everywhere.

Waterloo Station pigeon flurry,

Upper crust businessmen with headphones,

I yearn to scratch my back.

People, everywhere.

Everyone respects each other,

This is the facade economy,

I yearn to scratch my back. 

-Barnard G. Fentonthwaite

 

Aural Reminiscences: Devin O' Shaughnessy of Fruit Bat Annihilator

Fruit Bat Annihilator's logo showed a bat hanging upside down holding a flail, with bloodshot eyes. This is not it. 

Aural reminiscences will invite famous and infamous names from the anarchic annals of punk rock history and many other musical genres to reminisce about their experiences of life in the music industry. Everything our subjects say is their own opinion, and doesn't represent the views of News, News, News, News. We will not edit, cut, sanitize or refrain from printing anything our subjects say, no matter how lewd, tempestuous, coquettish or unsavoury. This week we welcome Devin O' Shaughnessy, the controversial front man of Glaswegian cyberpunk band Fruit Bat Annihilator. 

NNNN (News, News, News, News): Devin, when our readers see your name in our paper, they'll immediately think of 'the incident'. Do you know which 'incident' i'm talking about?

DO (Devin O' Shaughnessy): Aye, I think so, yeah. 

NNNN: What does it feel like to have something like that constantly following you wherever you go? It must feel pretty hard constantly being defined by that one moment of madness. 

DO: Aye, but I take codeine, you know? A lot of the stuff I see in the papers and that is false anyway, you know? It's fake and that. It used to make me angry, you know? But not anymore. I'm used to the bullshit, i'm used to the lies. I just figured, you know? These people have a job, and i'm interesting to them, i'm like their cocaine, their amphetamines, their Nightol. They need me, you know? So if they want to write about me, I don't care, you know? 

Fruit Bat Annihilator were one of the most popular cyber-punk bands of the 1980s. This is not them.

NNNN: But it must feel infuriating to be constantly misrepresented in the press?

DO: It used to be, you know? This one journo at the Daily Star printed this story about me years ago that was utter dogshit. He said I lip-synced my performance at the Queen's Silver Jubilee and made a big thing about how I was unprofessional and a massive fraud. I broke into my brother's dental practice and stole his tools, you know? All cordless flossers, forceps and that pink liquid and shit like that. Then I went to the journo's house in West London and fucking went to town on his big mouth. I sewed his fucking mouth shut, but not before forcing him to eat the Times Literary Supplement whilst singing 'Take On Me' by A-ha. Not only did the guy eat his words, he ate better words. The fella's face was weeping and that. It was classic, you know? But, as I said before, I've mellowed and matured with age I think. I look back on all the shit that I did in the late 70s and I don't regret it, I relish it. I miss it. But I'm older, you know? If I could go on being disruptive and chaotic, I would, but it's a matter of survival. Most punk rockers aren't as self-destructive as people might think, you know? We know when to stop and we know when we're too old to set stuff alight, you know?

NNNN: But that destructive impulse is still there?

DO: You're too fucking right it is. You wouldn't believe how much I want to look you up on Facebook, find where you live and come to your house and scream at you and your family. I had to bang my head against the wall before I came on Zoom to meet you, that's why I was bleeding profusely. People think i'm too much of a live-wire and too over the top, but what they don't realize is, the person they meet is fucking soft. They have no idea what i'm like at maximum capacity. 

NNNN: So would you say people see around 30% of who you actually are?

DO: Aye, no. More like 24%, but i'd have to check those wee numbers there. I did a spreadsheet a while back and figured it out, but the vagaries of time and repression have made the number much lower. I now show a lot less to the world and that will surely be represented in statistical data. But, who has the time these days, you know? 

NNNN: What percentage of your inner life projection to the outside world would you like to reach? What would be a healthy figure for you?

DO: Aye, so 42% is my target. Anything over that would be dangerous though. There was a brief period in the early 80s where I was at 49%, it felt like I was clinging on to a bullet train, everyone who met me experienced me, experienced me, emotionally. They experienced me in ways most people never experience their own family. Within 10 minutes of knowing me, people would either be repulsed and want to murder me or they'd want to marry me and keep me locked in a dungeon out of  toxic love. There was no middle ground, people's reaction to me was extreme and fanatic. It was like everyone I met was acting out their own private apocalypse and trying to drag me along with them.

O' Shaughnessy is also a keen painter. This is not one of his paintings. 

NNNN: So this would have been the early 80s, around the time of your fourth studio album Do Psychopaths Dream of Electrocuted Sheep? Great album, by the way. How much of this time do you remember and how much is a dirty haze?

DO: My memories of the time are surprisingly clear. I kept a diary, which shocks people, for some reason. They think of us punk rockers as illiterate hooligans, but in reality, there's nothing we like more than the smell of a fresh paperback, or the uphill battle of sitting in front of an empty Word document, you know?

NNNN: Can we take a sneak peek at a random diary entry, say, 19th January 1981?

DO: That's not a random date at all, and you know that, you wee shite. That was the night I crowd-surfed into the wheelchair section of my audience in Leipzig. The right-wing press called it 'Cripplesurfgate' and the left-wingers wrote a series of opinion-pieces about ableism, disability rights and the history of crowd-surfing and the underlying discrimination against wheelchair users perpetuated by the activity. What really happened was I broke my neck and wore this anarchic, cyberpunk neck brace for 2 months. It was painted matte black and was adorned with little robot skulls and middle fingers. People signed it with their favourite swear words and their own blood. I was on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine wearing it, you know? But here's the diary entry for the 19th:

19th January 1981

Fell off the stage tonight attempting to crowd-surf, ended up falling into the lads in wheelchairs, was performing 'The High Man in the Castle' from my latest album. Performance was legendary, thought i'd top it off with a crowd-surf as It usually turns out OK, it did in Stockholm, London, New York and Guernsey. But my aim was poor and my neck's in agony. The local hospital were lifesavers, I gave all the nurses a copy of my first LP 'Please, Sir, I Want Some Alan Moore'. Will be about 4 months before I can crowd-surf again, i'll have to find a new hobby, flagellation maybe. I once knew a musician guy, a real avant-garde, outsider type. He used to self-flagellate on stage, directing the whip according to the audience's whims. It was real 'event theatre'. Venues that allow this kind of extreme acts are sadly disappearing. The Narcotic Beaver in Islington is still going strong though. Anyway, this particular guy died from anemia, lost too much blood in the end. Characters like him really form the backbone of our collective creative unconscious. We are all animals, all savages. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

NNNN: So, looking back at this diary entry, do you think you predicted the decline in independent, anarchic venues like 'The Narcotic Beaver'?

DO: Aye, they shut down a year after I wrote that! It's heart-breaking, most of my 20s were spent in places like the Beaver, The Chaste Maid in Cheapside, MK Ultra +, Cromwell's Fanny, The Chernobyl Experience & Wet Fred's Barnstorming Hickory-Doodle Shakin' Booty Dance Ranch. I was born in Glasgow, but I was made in Cromwell's Fanny. If you weren't there, there's no way you could know. I remember being in this strange experimental bar in Holborn, the whole place was tilted at a 50 degree angle and all the bar staff were naked and completely hairless. I was playing crazy eights at this table which also happened to be a fish tank, the guy opposite me pulled out a machete and some shaving foam and proceeded to shave his wee handlebar moustache off in a seductive and salacious manner. This all sounds unbelievable to people who weren't there, but there's thousands of stories like this I could tell, you know? My point is, all these places have shut down. They've been replaced with fancy new chain restaurants and 'trendy' cocktail bars. People argue that they're an 'upgrade' on what stood before, but we don't see it that way. You won't ever hear someone begin a story like "I saw a guy ride a Tapir through a ring of fire in All Bar One", nothing interesting happens in All Bar One. I did see a guy ride a Tapir through a ring of fire, by the way. The wee Tapir was unharmed, but the lad who rode him was badly burned. 

A common sight of patrons donning animal masks would have greeted any weary traveler who happened to stumble upon 'The Narcotic Beaver' in the late 70s/Early 80s. This is not 'The Narcotic Beaver'.

NNNN: Do you think I personally would have survived this era?

DO: Fuck no, you're a wee sissy. You wouldn't last 10 minutes in The Chernobyl Experience. No, you're of the Wetherspoons generation. The 'sit down, drink, take a few selfies and call it an experience' generation. People like you consider Johnny Depp or Russell Brand to be hardcore partiers, but they're like Mary Whitehouse and Jacob Rees-Mogg compared to some of the people I know. I once knew a guy who could make people overdose just by looking at them, imagine Prince Harry doing that.

NNNN: And this lifestyle complemented your music career?

DO: Aye, It fuelled it. People always look at people like me and say "What could have been?" But It's not like that, you know? I don't want to be the person you think you see, there's no such thing as wasted potential in my opinion. 'Potential' is a construct, you know? The music we've made may be niche and only suitable for a limited audience, but why should we have to want to make it into the 'big time', I don't care about appealing to a wide range of people. I don't care about appealing to any people. People shouldn't always have to be catered to, you know. Art shouldn't be made to reinforce people's prior tastes, it should disrupt, it should heighten your senses, it should bother you. I like to bother people. We made it our mission in the 80s to not give a fuck, there's an art to not giving a fuck, you know? You can put that on a fucking fridge magnet.

NNNN: So speaking of the band, let's delve into the origins of how you all met. I believe Tommy Trott and Wayne 'Lucy' Ferr were the two founding members, then you and Nigel Orgy came later?

DO: Aye, me and Nige upset the apple cart a wee bit when we joined up in 79'. Tommy and Lucy were doing quite well touring various small farming villages throughout the Highlands, they weren't punk rockers then though. They were still outrageous, but in a folksy kind of way. They used to perform a beautiful rendition of 'The Parting Glass', before literally 'parting with their glass' by throwing their glass of bitter into the audience and provoking a riot. People got used to this and used to throw their glasses at Tommy mid-song. He's be sitting on a stool, guitar in his arms singing "Goodnight, and joy unto you a-" then he'd have to duck to avoid bottles being lobbed at him. He loved it though, it was his bread and butter, you know? Ye wouldn't see anything like that nowadays, imagine Ed Sheeran or Hozier lobbing a Carlsberg into the audience at Wembley. I don't know if Ye knew this, but Martin Carthy was briefly in the previous incarnation of Annihilator. He was too depraved for us though, too fucking violent, too roguish, there's a line, you know? 

NNNN: So how did the band transition from the previous incarnation, I believe you used to be called 'Twisted Harlot', to 'Fruit Bat Annihilator'? And how did you come up with the name, does it have meaning?

DO: Well, me and Nige joined. It kind of happened organically, you know? They were in dire straits and needed more members to continue touring and to pay the rent etc. Nige wasn't that talented musically, we used to nickname him Ringo Starr because you could get away with insults like that back then, but he learnt the drums and has done a serviceable job, you know? I was a passable singer, so we both joined and bonded quite quickly. We all decided a name change was appropriate though. I don't remember, if i'm honest with ye, how we came up with Fruit Bat Annihilator. We were getting fucking twatted in a pub, a real stone-cold, hardcore drinking session, we even wore chain mail and carried spears, it was that intense. My theory is the name came to us subliminally. There was like 5 fruit machines in this pub, and another arcade game called 'Alien Annihilator' or some wee shite like that. Then, as we were stumbling home, all hammered and mauled like shit pugilists, Lucy claimed to have been attacked by a cauldron of bats. So I guess all this just came together.

NNNN: The name got you into a spot of trouble though, didn't it? Once you reached the big time?

DO: Aye, a load of animal rights groups claimed we were encouraging the annihilation of fruit bats. It hurt us quite badly that publicity, not because of our image, but because we've all four of us devoted a significant amount of our spare time working with bat conservation societies. We love everything about the creatures, they're charming, mischievous, highly intelligent, crafty, bizarre, macabre, all the things that spark our curiosity as Humans. We've had a shared fondness for the little buggers since before we named our band after them. To respond to those critics who claimed we were encouraging violence, we held a kind of 'Fruit Bat Live Aid', The Sex Pistols performed, so did The Clash. Engelbert Humperdinck even contributed a dozen knackered 6-strings which arrived in a soaking wet shipping container. It really took off, I hear they're doing it again in 2021, fruit bats have taken a hit due to this COVID shite. Paloma Faith is performing I hear. The wee lass understands the fruit bat hype, good on her!

Engelbert Humperdinck maintains a keen interest in fruit bats, especially their mating habits. This is not Engelbert Humperdinck, this is Paul Anka. 

NNNN: It's clear from this interview that you're fairly defiant about the criticism you've received. What do you think your legacy is?

DO: I don't care.

NNNN: You must care a little?

DO: I care nowt'.

NNNN: Do you at least see a reunion down the line? When the pandemic is over?

DO: I see a reunion happening during the lockdown. That's the most punk rock thing I can think of, holding a punk rock concert in a claustrophobic underground location to an orgy of human scum spreading their droplet seeds around in wonderful, chaotic harmony. It's a real middle finger to the Tories, and to COVID. 

NNNN: And you won't bat an eyelid if the papers find out?

DO: Aye, i'm dying anyway, I had a liver transplant a few years back, had a hip replaced last year, and i've become addicted to Russian literature, it won't be long before I kick the bucket, I just want to make sure the bucket is kicked into a rabid, screaming audience of knucklehead bastards gathered in a poorly lit cellar. It'll be Fruit Bat Annihilator's last hurrah, you know? 

NNNN: I look forward to that, Devin. Finally, what's your opinion on the conflict currently afflicting the Tigray region of Ethiopia? 

DO: Aye, I was reading about that the other day in The Financial Times, terrible situation, you know? My hearts go out to the people caught in the conflict. I said as much on my Twitter the other day. People are surprised that I have a Twitter, they assume I'd loathe it, but I actually quite like it. It's a worthy distributor for chaos and ill-informed, half-baked musings of destruction, and you can do it all on the toilet at 2am. It's mental. If it were around in the 80s stuff would have been sanitized though. But we're the old guard, we need somewhere to spew our angst-ridden diatribes, and Twitter does quite nicely. I called the Starbucks CEO a cunt the other day. Isn't it amazing that ye can do that nowadays? You used to have to go to their house and throw a brick into their children's window with a wee piece of paper attached to it saying 'cunt', but now ye can just @ them online. They won't see it, but it's the feeling that counts, you know? Fucking wee Starbucks corporate shite. The modern world isn't so bad, I guess, but we all want 'our day' back. This day will be someone's 'our day' someday, so I guess i'll have to make do with their day, even our day was better and you're all cunts. We all want to feel young again, to feel light as air. We owned it all, we lived like kings, because we were fucking kings. 

NNNN: Devin O' Shaughnessy, thank you for talking to us. 

Next time on Aural Reminiscences we'll be welcoming jazz/demolition fusion artist Azure C. Blend. Jazz/demolition was a musical genre which arose in the early noughties by combining free, experimental jazz with demolition derbies, popular in the US. Audiences would gather in an arena and watch cars mercilessly attempt to annihilate each other and create unlimited destruction whilst hundreds of jazz musicians would line the arena trying to provide frantic and chaotic musical accompaniment. The sound of brass instruments and the experimental rhythmic harmonies juxtaposing with motor vehicles being molested in an orgy of steel was found to be an oddly pleasing, fresh new sound for an American audience. Blend will join us to reminisce about his aural experiences in the Deep South.