The Week in Rhyme
by Dick Tator
Fires rage round all of our Euro-cousins
They've put out hundreds and are still fighting dozens
The heat and the drought are still causing a fuss
I bet that the frogs all wish it was us
In Iraq the natives still have no power
They're getting more restless with each passing hour
They've still got no food and their homes are just rubble
They'd better find Saddam Hussein on the double
At home Dr Kelly will not go away
As the inquiry hots up with each passing day
Andrew Gilligan and his mate Susan Watts
Try to uncover the government's plots
Next week it's the turn of Campbell to stand
He'll go into the courthouse trying to look grand
But he's pretty nervous, his job's on the line
Just lie through your teeth mate, and it'll be fine
The comedy terrorist still plagues the cops
But the hype is over and his fringe show's a flop
When he went up to Windsor he got pretty far
But the bloke in the Scotsman just gave him one star
More talk in the news about poor old George Best
At breakfast he gave his new liver a test
Four drinks of wine with his muesli and bread
The papers all think that he'll drink himself dead
But George's old fellow's still serving him well
So all of you journos can just go to hell
While you're busy writing about him and his life
He'll be shagging your daughters and shagging your wife
The lights are all fading across in the States
And the Yanks are blaming their Canadian mates
They are losing their power and it's making things tense
If only it were true in a political sense
But don't worry America, there's no cause for alarm
Your people are safe; they will come to no harm
Your trains may be cancelled, and your streets all pitch black
"It's OK," says George Bush, "it's not a terrorist attack"
There's no power in America and none in Baghdad
The locals are restless they're all getting mad
There are children in Basra, dying of thirst
I wonder whose power will be put back on first?
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Picture of the Week
by the DeadBrain Paparazzi
Photo: Workers travel home in New York
Fenella Clamp Speaks Out!
Britain's best agony aunt airs your agony
by Mark Kingswick
Dear Fenella
My house is a tip! I just can't keep on top of the cleaning – the place is a filth hole. I am witless with worry and my sleep pattern is all over the place. Last week a guest mistook the broom cupboard for the WC and pissed all over my rubbish. I was distraught! Can you save me? I am down to my last clean mug!
Anabella Dirtrack
San Francisco
Fenella says:
You filthly bitch! Use a fucking flame thrower and torch the muck pit. If you don't – I WILL! There never any excuse for living in a pig pen. I am going to report you to every organization on earth. You will drown in your own rubbish. Period!
Dear Fenella
My husband likes to dress in my shimmering lace numbers: does this make him a fag? Last night l caught him lounging on our bed caressing his nipples. Please help me – l think l am going mad!
Jemima Frillon
Kingston, Jamaica
Fenella says:
Calm down you idiot broad! So what? Huh? Let him wear anything he likes – if he gets lynched at the local Klu Klux meeting – so be it. A small burning cross, sewn onto the front of your panties might help. Period!
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