Rhyme and Punishment

Well! Who knew?!
How dangerous going for a curry could be.
We all know the dangers of ordering while pissed, when you are convinced that 32 poppadoms between 6 and the hottest thing on the menu are a splendid idea.
Oblivious to the following morning’s Johnny Cash moment. When you don’t fall in the burning ring of fire……
You are in full possession of one.
But, it’s not that.
Bombs can be made from chapatti flour and peroxide used by hairdressers!
BBC News informs me that this is what the alleged, failed suicide bombers used.

(Failed suicide Bomber??? “Yeah I was going to do it, had the bomb, rucksack, train ticket, the lot!.... But wouldn’t you know it, halfway there and the fucking Prozac kicked in”…

The reason they didn’t go off? Too much flour!
There you go, you can all stop worrying about ‘those Muslims who run the Take Away’.
They wouldn’t fuck up the flour!
Asian hairdressers must be shitting themselves waiting for Scotland Yard to come piling through their doors!
Just remember:

“First they came for the hairdressers, I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a hairdresser.
Then they came for the Take Away owners, I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Take Away owner.
Then they came for me, but I had fucking starved to death with a 6ft afro”

Sleepy Niemoller. (Feel free to imagine umlauts!)

I have been to Marlborough today. There is a fantastic bookshop there.
The owner is one of those great upper class Englishmen who are superior, rude and helpful all at the same time!
Sassy, he would appeal to your inner Parisienne.
I like him because he is no nonsense.
Usually there is something about books on shelves that makes people feel they ought to be quiet and library-like. Same with big shops that have book sections, that’s the quietest area.
Not this guy. The whole shop could hear him being rude to his bank.
“Who are you? Come on, come on, Lloyds or Barclays?”
“Why are you phoning me?”
“What? What? You want me to do what?”
“No. NO. I can’t talk to you now!”
Down went the phone, with real venom.
All the people in the shop became really involved in the book in front of them.
I wanted to applaud.
He couldn’t have given a toss.

I saw the front page of The Mirror today and can’t work out whether to be pissed off or laugh like a drain.
Roy Whiting, murderer of 8 year old Sarah Payne, is complaining that his cell is haunted by Harold Shipman!
The poor bugger is ‘scared witless’.
Really? What, More than Sarah Payne was?..
Fuck him. Leave him in there.
In fact, send in Derek Accorah and John Edward.
One can tell him where the dead are hanging about and the other can tell him what they are saying.
Creepy.