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.