“This next one will kill ya folks…but only if you don’t laugh”
In what is being seen as a surprise move, Russian President, Vladimir Putin, has announced that he plans to hit the comedy club circuit in the north of England in the run-up to Christmas. Political commentators see this as a bid to ease the strained relations between his country and The West, caused in the main, by Russia’s recent sabre-rattling, the politically contentious invasion of The Crimea and the presence of Russian forces in Ukraine.
The ex-KGB strongman is well-known for his dry wit and ability to see the humour in somewhat fraught circumstances. Former colleagues have recounted, that during his tenure as head of the Russian Secret Police, he was a constant source of fun, and would have everybody in Moscow’s notorious Lubyanka jail falling about with his humorous anecdotes while they waited to interrogate political prisoners.
Speaking on Russian state television last night, Putin assumed his famous, stoney-faced, deadpan expression as he outlined plans to tour Bradford, Sheffield, Halifax and Rotherham, culminating in a Christmas Eve appearance on Wigan Pier. He ended the broadcast with the announcement that more Russian tanks and ground troops would be sent to the Ukrainian border before signing off with a one-liner:
“Why did the chicken cross the road comrades?…To escape a KGB man with a poisoned umbrella of course!”
This announcement marks the first tour of British comedy clubs by a foreign despot since Pol Pot’s memorable “Genocide Japes” tour of London and The Home Counties in 1976.
The Daily Opressor.
A few months ago I bought an old and battered, 1963, East German, Trabant motor vehicle at auction for a few pounds with a view to restoring it to its former glory.
Beneath the spare wheel I found a small cache of letters, bound with hemp gardening twine and bearing the post mark of the former Soviet Union.
I spent the next few hours reading them, and in the course of doing so, discovered that they were written by a Russian man from Vladivostok to his lover in the city of Petrograd in 1965.
How they came to be secreted beneath the spare wheel of the old, rusting wreck is a mystery to me. Perhaps she returned them to him after their love died, or maybe they were never delivered at all due to the chaotic nature of the postal service at that time. Whatever the facts of the matter, I found them rather uplifting and full of a kind of myopic hope for happier times and for an eventual fulfilment of their passion.
I should therefore, with your permission, like to reproduce them here for you throughout this week. Here is the first I read, dated December 24 1968:
My Most Darlingest Lyobochka
I am hoping most earnestly that you are well and that production is up in the glorious bomb factory. The weather here is being very kind for time of year. Last night was being just minus 30 deg Celsius, with periodic snow flurries, so Comrade Wife and I went for stroll to shops for new toilet brush and to collect Christmas ration of beetroot vodka. On way we bumped into Comrade Armski from Apartment Block #29. He told us toilet brush consignment was due in Spring but that we could borrow his. This is typical of the glorious and most noble spirit of our heroic neighbours. I will however report him to local party official in morning in case he is stealing brush from glorious communal toilet bloc.
It is with great sadness that I must be telling you that Comrade Cat is missing and has not been seen since last Tuesday. Despite the unseasonably mild weather I am most concerned. I am leaving saucer of turnip water outside door each night but it is remaining untouched.
How I long to rub industrial tractor grease onto your Soviet buttocks my most darlingest darling.
Apt. Bloc #27
Mike and Gaz pictured leaving the Soz building last night
Soz Satire cub reporters and firm friends, Mike Steeden and Gary Hoadley, are summoned to my office for a good dressing down.
Little did I realise that they’d already had one. Click on the link below for the rather upsetting details 😦
Easy now sah!
Lawd Jesus me bredrin, what the arse a ‘appening me yoot? Blessed love to all on dis beautiful Sunday to raaas!
Me a love me Sundee mornings dem. Me a get up real hurly and roll up some of me most righteous ‘erb and smoke up a couple of spliffs dem. Den I like to go for a long walk to the bottom of me yard and back. Den me all the time eat up me breakfast. Sometime me ‘ave Rice Krispy and sometime me have a lickle bowl of ackie and swordfish wid ‘ot milk and ting.
Den me smoke some more ‘erb and me ‘ave a listen to The Harchers on BBC. Dem ‘ave every kind o’ ting on dere now you know me yoot. Dem ‘ave lesbian gals, batty boys and people talkin’ pon sheep and ting.
Me sometime go to church too cos me mudder say if me nah go she gone come round and give me some ‘ard licks and put me under ‘eavy manners to raaaas. She a good mudder but she all the time wants to mash up me bloodclaat face and tear up me pussytongue.
When me a done me worship and ting me like to relax meself wid some real boss ganga before me a settle down to watch De Politic Show wid Andrew Neil and dat ickle piece of poom poom what sometime sit wid ‘im. Lawd Jesus me bredrin, she one pretty ickle ting and me want kiss ‘er up and every kind of ting sah.
When me a done wid me heducation me like to go see me posse in de Hearl Of Hessex and ‘ave a little game o’ dominos wid me yoot till it time for De Hantique Roadshow and ting.
Blessed love to all dis Sundee and nah bodder looking pon me woman or me a give you some bloodclaat licks up de side of your ‘ead sah.
Salassie hail me bredrin. Roots!
Character inspired by my good Jamaican spar Carl “Shakey” Shakes
Image by Mina
Mr Clancy pictured knowing his rights last night
A 57 year old man from Kentucky in The United States has taken out a lawsuit against a small pie and mash shop in the East End of London, claiming that he sustained neck trauma injuries, known as whiplash, following a visit to the eaterie in June of this year.
Mr Hal Clancy, who was visiting the UK as a tourist during the London Olympics, told reporters “I guess it was about two months after I arrived back home when I started to get a slight pain in the back of my neck. My wife Dolores told me it was just a little stiffness due to a change in the weather but I knew different. I was just as sure as hell that I was suffering from a delayed reaction from having to turn my head to give the waitress my order in that damn place. I know my rights and I intend to sue those limey sonsofbitches for every last cent. It’s not that we need the money, I just dont want anybody else having to endure what I’ve gone through. No siree.”
Tony Bayliss, 45, the proprieter of Alfie’s Pie & Mash Palace in Walthamstowe East London, responded “I don’t remember the gentleman to be honest with you. We had so many tourists last summer, what with it being The Olympics and everything. I’m sorry to hear that the poor bloke’s having problems but I’m pretty sure it’s nothing to do with us. Perhaps he slept in a draught or something.”
When told that Mr Bayliss would be contesting the suit and that no other country in Europe would countenance such a spurious claim, Mr Clancy became angry and told our reporter “I dont give a damn what they do in California, the whole damn place is full of fags and communists anyway, this is Kentucky and I’m telling you I know my goddamn rights!”
This latest case come just three weeks after another American, Mrs Mildred Gugenheim from New Jersey, lost her case against a whelk stall in Bethnal Green, East London, after claiming a plate of winkles she ate there two years ago caused her depression and vaginal dryness.
A few young hopefuls waiting for autographs and impregnation pictured outside Upton Park last night.
Table football icons, Subbuteo, have announced plans to introduce a series of figures representing the gold digging floozies that throw themselves at Premier League players with an eye to getting in the family way by them, or selling their stories to the Sunday papers
Mr Christopher McManus, marketing director for the company, told us “We pride ourselves on our accurate representation of the world of professional football, so it seems only logical that we produce a range of scantily clad hussies that will approach the players after each game and offer them sexual favours in return for a few glasses of bubbly and a chance to get themselves pregnant in a plush hotel room the very same evening.”
“We intend to make a fairly extensive range of strumpets, with blondes, brunettes and the odd ginger one, just to be on the safe side”
“Each model will come with a detachable base so that they can be laid on the pitch with their legs open, or even bent over a crush barrier, and sorted out in one of our model grandstands”
“To increase authenticity each figure will come with a small handbag containing cigarettes, makeup, a condom with holes in it and their knickers”
“The skilled and diligent Subbuteo enthusiast will soon be able to flick these figures towards players as they come off the pitch. At the point of collision a small spring loaded device in the base will make all their clothes fall off.”
“Our team of model makers are currently working on a heavily pregnant version who will turn up outside the dressing rooms before games demanding exorbitant maintenance payments along with a house and an Aston Martin.”
When questioned as to whether a scheming rent boy version was being considered for gay players, Mr McManus said “Not at present as none of the players want to come out of the closet. The queer ones will just have to content themselves with having a crafty butchers at their team mates nobs in the showers or masturbating furtively under the water in the communal bath”
Advance sales are reportedly brisk with the main interest coming from the Essex area.