I suggest those of a nervous disposition take a stiff drink of very strong booze before attempting this, as I cannot emphasise enough the spine-tingling horror that awaits you.

**THIS IS NOT SPAM**

To start off proceedings, I’ve reprinted my infamous story, ‘The One Hundred Year Old Fart’, which won me all the writing awards in the world when it first appeared on the World Wide Web back in 2009.

Enjoy reliving the terror, and check back for more spine-tingling stories in the months to come*.

*Unless I give up on it like I did with Every Bugger’s Farted

Sir Clempton F’ffington-Carbroiler, the Secretary of State For Shirkers, Scroungers and These Bloody Disableds, has announced a radical shake-up of the benefits system.

Under the new proposals, anyone claiming Jobseekers’ Allowance will have to kill a live Bengal Tiger with their bare hands.

“We plan to come to an arrangement with the Indian government,” Sir Clempton told ITTODBTBIA. “We want them to sell us all their tigers, and in return we’ll give ‘em some string or something. They’re a very simple people, what with ‘em being fuzzie-wuzzies from off of abroad, so string’ll probably impress their simple, foreign minds.”

Meanwhile, those claiming Incapacity Benefits will be horse-whipped, tarred and feathered and plunged into special vats full of something the government calls ‘punishment sauce’.

“It’s dog-dirts, rotten eggs and human shitwater, basically,” Sir Clempton explains. “We’ve had enough of these idle disableds sitting about in their wheelchairs with their weird moon faces, lack of legs and those annoying, spasticated noises they all make that damn-near put you off your dinner. If they insist on stealing money from the exchequer, they can jolly-well do it from inside a barrel of shit, eggs and shit.”

“The bastards,” he added, wolfing down caviar and laughing and laughing and laughing.

Tremble, ye Internet, and despair! We are Amonymouse and we’ve taken time out from our busy lives masturbating over V For Vendetta, playing World Of Warcraft and wishing we had girlfriends to issue the following warning to Alf’s Discount Furniture Warehouse, Bingley, West Yorkshire:

“You have delivered the wrong support struts for our full-length mirror FOR THE LAST TIME. Prepare yourself, Alf’s Discount Furniture Warehouse, for the FULL FURY of a cabal of self-appointed online guardians who act as judge, jury and executioner without sparing a thought for due process or the rule of law.

“In the coming weeks, Alf’s Discount Furniture Warehouse, you will REAP THE WHIRLWIND as we inconvenience your website for THREE DAYS until you get a man in to sort it out. Bwa ha ha ha ha ha!

“YOU WILL NOT go unpunished, Alf’s Discount Furniture Warehouse! We are Amonymouse, we are legion and what’s it like to have sex with a proper woman?”

The campaign – which is already slipping from the goldfish-like memories of Twitterers everywhere because there’s a rumour that there’s this funny video doing the rounds where an ape pushes a banana up its arse – has the support of the world’s most inaccurate encyclopaedia, a few gaming websites nobody cares about and the eight people on Facebook who aren’t sending pictures of their penises to twelve year old girls.

If YOU don’t want the Americans to steal all our soap, please write, ‘I’m right behind whatever fly-by-night Internet campaign this is,’ in the comments section below.

Only if we stand together will we stop them nicking our soap!

Say NO to America and YES to soap!

Well … I say ‘all’. This blogging business has become a bit redundant in most quarters now you don’t have to make any effort whatsoever courtesy of the infantile Twitter and its retarded brother Facebook. But no matter. Here’s 2011 …

January

The year gets off to a roaring start when the sandal-waving maniacs of the Middle East stop having a go at us for stealing all their oil and instead turn their attention to that pack of gangsters wot rule their awful countries with diamond-encrusted iron fists. Kicking off proceedings is Tunisia, where thousands of lonely single men who spend most of their lives sitting in dirty bedsits masturbating over images of Princess Leia in a bikini have to cut short their arrested-development Star Wars holidays and evacuate the country before the local nutters carve up their faces and their plastic light sabers with actual grown-up weapons.

February

The one and only month of the year that doesn’t feel the need to outstay its welcome sees the resignation of Egypt’s beloved military dictator, Shaznay Mubarak. Shaznay – who is probably best remembered as the black one off of All Saints (the female East 17) – agrees to step down on the strict understanding that she will be replaced by an identical military dictator who will promise to change absolutely nothing and answer none of the angry public’s demands. After days of intense negotiation, Melanie Blatt agrees to take the vacant throne.

March

BANG! The nuclear earthquake hits Japan! As armies of Godzillas stalk the land, engulfing those vending machines that dole out children’s dirty knickers in radioactive flames, Japanese prime minister Fukuzumukumi Obiwankenobi cuts open his own guts on live television, claiming he’s failed the emperor. Jimmy Nail, who is touring the country with those two songs he wrote years ago about his shoes and his lying wife, escapes over the border into Borneo on the back of a hippopotamus.

April

Great Britain proves to the rest of the world that it’s damned if it’s going to be a part of the 21st Century by televising the marriage of the country’s future king to a tidy bit of posh crumpet called Kate Muggeridge. The bride wears a dress that makes grown women cry in the street, and the future king inexplicably refuses to have hair sewn back into his head, despite having access to an entire nation’s wealth. Meanwhile, America goes nuts for the bride’s sister’s arsehole.

May

BULLSEYE! America’s first black president, John Shaft, announces to the world that he’s personally shot Osamama Bin Laden up his goddamn ass. Shaft – aided by the A-Team, Knight Rider, Street Hawk, Rocky IV and Magnum P.I. – finds the evil Saudi maniac hiding under an expensive Western duvet watching child pornography in a decadent five star Pakistani hotel. After shooting Bin Laden in the ass and face, the president hurls the dead terrorist’s body into the sea as John Bon Jovi sings the US national anthem in the background and Afghanistan is coated in celebratory anthrax spores dyed red, white and blue to mark the occasion.

June

It’s still kicking off in the Middle East! Lunatic Libyan dictator M’waddywaddy ‘Colonel’ Gaddafi swears he’ll not go down without a fight before disappearing into a traditional Arab ‘dictator hole’ to await his grisly fate at the hands of his brutalised people. Meanwhile, as a plague of actual news breaks out around the world, Twitter occupies itself with what it hopes is the imminent death of failed Young Guns actor, Charlie Sheen.

July

The USA waves goodbye to its Space Shuttle program as Atlantis touches down for the final time at the Kennedy Space Center (their bloody spelling). The program is considered a failure as it did not usher in the promised future of living on the moon, eating roast dinners in pellet form and us all being waited on hand and foot by robot servants. In other news, Charlie Sheen fails to die horribly from a combination of cocaine and mental health issues. A disappointed Internet throws away its ‘Winning’ t-shirts in disgust.

August

As the sleet, driving wind and hail of a traditional British summer slams into the faces of the island’s bitter inhabitants, the nation’s youth shows its disdain for the Conservative government’s plans to raise tuition fees by stealing televisions and large sacks of value rice, and by setting fire to several awful areas of the country’s capital. Seeing a golden opportunity to protest at the program of public spending cuts, youngsters in other British cities join in the fun by looting track-suits and DVD players.

September

The UK again hits the news as the Leveson Inquiry into standards in the gutter press begins. Hugh Grant – who has been itching to settle scores since he was caught with his penis accidentally inside a prostitute’s mouth and that’s not right because stars of stuffy Merchant-Ivory films don’t get their particulars pleasured by tupsies, surely? – becomes the unlikely champion of a bunch of moaning celebrities who are all furious that stories that appeared about them did not benefit them financially. The gutter press, meanwhile, loses one of its most beloved editors as the Cruella De Ville-a-like Rebekah Brooks is forced to fall on her sword and retreat to her castle made of spiders and children’s tears.

October

As suspected, evil Libyan dictator M’waddywaddy ‘Colonel’ Gaddafi is found hiding in a dictator hole near his home town of Abubabu. Without stopping to think about what the bleeding-heart readers of the Guardian will make of his murder without trial, the people who Gaddafi has terrorised for forty years force a gun up his cock hole and fire bullets out of his anus. Bleeding-heart Guardian readers are, predictably, furious and angrily blame David Cameron for the dictator’s ‘murder’ on social networking sites.

November

In London, the Balls To St. Paul’s! anti-St. Paul’s Cathedral protest claims its first scalp as the church’s dean steps down. “This is a victory for the 99% of people who blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah,” a smelly, dole-scrounging parasite with a dog on a string tells BBC News. Meanwhile, Charlie Sheen remains stubbornly alive.

December

It’s Christmas! And to celebrate, both Sir Jimmy Savile and Ken Russell die (not necessarily in December). Sir Jimmy, who held the world record for most expansions done on a chest-expander in two minutes until it was robbed off of him by Richard O’Sullivan, kicks the bucket first and the entire nation goes into the sort of mourning the country hasn’t witnessed since Churchill’s fifty brandies- and four hundred cigars-a-day finally caught up with him at the tender age of ninety. And then, as if Sir Jimsworth’s passing wasn’t cruel enough, robbing us all of our Christmas, long-forgotten dirty film maker Ken Russell robs us of our New Year by shuffling off and reminding us all that we’ve seen both Ollie Reed’s and Alan Bates’s sweaty nadge sacks in inglorious Technicolor™.

So that was 2011. It was, as has already been pointed out, a year.

Happy (belated) New Year!

Hello? Yes? Well when’s he going to be back in the office? He’s on strike, y’say? That’s typical of this decade, is that. No wonder the country’s going to the dogs thirty nine years ago. Is there anyone else I can talk to? Yes, I’ll hold.

Bloody unions! Anyway, last time we were talking about testicular … bear with me …

Hello? That’s right, yes. It’s only when I engage third gear, mind. Once you’ve shifted out of third, the noise stops. Have I what? No I haven’t left any golf balls under the bonnet. What the hell gave you that idea? Is it because I’m Welsh? Yes, I’ll hold.

Right, where were we? Ah yes! Testi … hang on …

It’s a common problem with the ’72 model? Well what do you plan to do about it? I can’t drive around with that racket going on. No I don’t want some complimentary floor-mats, thanks very much. Yes, I’ll hold.

Look, I’m going to have to leave off my cancer advise until I’ve finished this phone call I’m making thirty nine years ago. Just keep ‘old of ‘em and if you feel a bit queasy before I’ve told you what to do about not getting bollock cancer, get the wife to have a shufti.

Russell, 84, passed away as he attempted to masturbate over a picture of Glenda Jackson’s unimpressive knockers at the weekend, and as a result has secured his place in history as yet another member of a club that has only recently welcomed the flamboyant 1970s weirdo, Sir Jimmy Savile (84), into its illustrious fold.

“It’s alarming how many elderly celebrities are cut down in the prime of the end of their lives at the age of just eighty four,” Heat magazine’s Ifor Irrelevance told Bastard, Chips & Beans when we caught up with him selling old rope for money at a swanky London old rope depository. “You’re not telling me that it’s a coincidence that they all seem to die at the same age. The age of eighty four.”

Jimmy Savile and Ken Russell are just the latest in a long line of celebrities to join a club that has been growing year-on-year since it claimed its first member – General Douglas MacArthur, Supreme Allied Commander in the Pacific during World War II – back in 1964. Its victims include:

Leslie Nielsen

The eighty four year old actor died from multiple organ failure brought on by a fit of laughing during a cast read-through of the script for the Wayans brothers’ forthcoming motion picture, Scary Dance Vampire Movie XVIII.

Weirdly, he was eight four when he died.

Ginger Rogers

The eighty four year old dancer died when her hips gave way and her arse fell out during a guest appearance on Dancing With The Stars. “It’s the way she would have wanted to go,” wailed the tormented ghost of her long-time dance partner, Fred Astaire, as he clanked his chains and swore vengeance on a world that had long-forsaken him.

Ginger was eighty four.

Charlton Heston

The eighty four year old gun enthusiast, last man alive and monkey fucker-upperer lost his life when he forgot to lock his back door and radioactive cannibals got in. His last words – scrawled in his own blood on the wall of his kitchen-dinette – were ‘I’ll tear ALL your heads off, you damn flesh-eating COWARDS!’

Heston was a spooky eighty four when he was eaten alive.