Poetry Corner

In what was a great day for the people of Essex, Evil Joe recently returned to his family estate. The celebrations in the South Eastern county are reported to have lasted for several days and will surely become for the area a yearly tradition of drinking and being merry on a par with Christmas, New Year and the opening of a new branch of Liquid, all rolled into one.

On the opposite side dissent and aggravation in the Midlands on hearing the news can only be compared to the Chicago Race Riots, the Iranian Revolution and the Boston Tea Party combined. Times a million. But despite trying everything short of closing the county borders the people of Leicester have been forced to take Evil Joe back. But as it is only for twelve months, the rest of the UK is not celebrating just yet. It's a situation a lot like giving a condemned man a stay of execution. They're very glad, but know sooner or later the concierge will be asking what they want as a starter for their last meal.

It would appear that Evil Joe managed to develop some culture in the South.* Upon his return to the grim North he has shown himself to be a veritable Renaissance Man, dabbling in poetry and philosophising on the nature of life (quickly giving when he realised he doesn't have a life).

*Sadly, this was more than just a metaphorical statement. Medical practitioners found that a particularly nasty bacteria had grown on his brain, causing him to believe that he was a genius of prose. Surgeons managed to remove all the nasty culture but Doctors believe Evil Joe will never regain the ability to realise his own ineptitude. We all weep.

Evil Joe was reluctant to release his cack-handed attempts at poetry. However, he was convinced by his great friend and mentor Sleazy Tiger, a real Renaissance Man. ST was actually based in Italy during the historic movement [though as long-time readers of this blog will know he was either drunk or sleeping off a monster hangover from 1550 onwards - Ed]. A little known fact is that our hero provided William Shakespeare with some of the capital needed to start The Globe theatre. However, once ST found out it was legitimate theatre and there would be no lewdness, he quickly lost interest. Alongside this Sleazy Tiger claims to have been the inspiration for the original version of William Blake's most famous verse (sadly later cut):

'Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

in the forests of the night

what immortal venereal disease

could frame thy genitals in such fearful rash?'

So when Evil Joe approached ST with his laughable attempts at the great medium he was happy to help promote the young jugglers efforts. Initially he recommended Evil Joe audition for 'Britain's Got Talent.' Not because he thought he could win, but to ensure humiliation on a national level in front of a Televised audition of several millions. When this failed (only because even Television producers have some moral scruples) humiliation in front of four people was deemed to be sufficient.

So without further ado ST presents Evil Joe's ode to his home town entitled 'Leicester is Crap'

'I recently returned to where I was born

An action that has made me highly forlorn

For fool of a boy, what a sap

I’d forgotten, Leicester is Crap

The natives are restless and share their rage

By assault with no fear of the cage

An aggression with no limiting cap

There’s blood in the stool, Leicester is Crap

If not engaged in acts of wanton brutality

They are keen to practice other elements of criminality

They’d steal a sleeping cat clean from your lap

For Civil Order, Leicester is Crap

Our culture is lacking you may have heard

One Museum’s best exhibit, a fake turd

And the Roman wall has a massive gap

Archaeologists agree, Leicester is Crap

Musically, Kasabian were here before they were signed

Five loud tone deaf twats weren’t hard to find

And Mark Morrison was jailed for being unable to rap

For holding a tune, Leicester is Crap

Eating out for the spice fan is a major coup

Shame they focus on an arse-wrenching Vindaloo

And we’re North enough to call a roll a bap

Gordon Ramsay would say, f**king Leicester is f**king Crap

And sportsmen by warned, the football team ‘get beat’

Whilst the Rugby team are known as massive cheats

The Cricket team’s bowlers get some fearful tap

The pundits concur, Leicester is Crap

The Architecture is concrete and unoriginality

All fine as it represents the greater banality

In the countryside beware the badger traps

Put a bag over its head, Leicester is Crap

So what else can I say of my home of years?

Other than that it regularly reduces me to tears?

If you approach find a way around on the map

Once and for all, Leicester. Is. Crap.'

SLEAZY TIGER’S BLOG OF SLEAZE LITERARY INSTALLMENT: PART FOUR - A MODERN TIGER FOR A MODERN TIME

“I have described my past in detail here for the first time, so I guess I should not be surprised that for many years there has been some confusion over my origins. Until now the most popular and widely held theory was that I was invented by a group of idiotic drunken jugglers as the parallel of their Student Union’s own ‘Easy Tiger’. Nothing could be further from the truth. Whilst the bunch of clowns believed that they had created me from the darkest recesses of their gin addled psyches they were sadly mistaken. This misplaced conviction was quickly quashed as I unleashed a barrage of lawyers* to sue them for misrepresentation, slander (as if I’d even bother wasting my time harassing that amateur ‘Easy Tiger’) and for being a bunch of sad bastards who spent their Monday evenings juggling when they could have been chatting up girls.

They withered under my blitzkrieg attack and quickly gave up their ridiculous claims. But their hero worship of me had inadvertently made me into an internet sensation. Suddenly perverts, players and paedophiles (though I still maintain I thought she was 16) everywhere were hailing me as their Messiah. My rise to fame came much like Paris Hilton’s in that I had existed before the web announced me to the world but no one cared. Unlike the famous heiress however, I did more than release one poor quality sex tape and make a living from the resulting infamy. In fact I’ve appeared in every sex tape ever produced. In at least one shot of every sex tape, no matter how poorly shot or tame, there is my great self standing in the background giving any and all participants a big thumbs up.”

[*You might ask, “But ST, aren’t lawyers a bit too...well... establishment for you?” Nothing could be further from the truth. I have always employed the lawyer as one of my primary forces of attack, and in fact I was instrumental in their creation as a key part of the world’s judicial system. After all, they lie, manipulate, sometimes steal and often defend some of the worst people in the world. Were they not as untrustworthy as Webmonkey around a flatmate’s girlfriend I’d embrace them as my brothers in sleaze.]

“The internet has been a revelation to this Tiger. I of course was around when it began, but I did not see the potential. It was just a bunch of geeks sharing the results of their latest test to investigate the levels of sex in their sad little lives (Results: Still not getting any). I admit I was lax in my foresight, as this was the perfect set-up for me to invent internet dating, internet sex sites and cyber-stalking all in one fell swoop. In my defence this occurred in Switzerland, a country where their favourite activity is yodelling, so I wasn’t exactly on the lookout for prime sleaze opportunities. It has been one of my greatest regrets that I was not onboard with the web revolution from the start (up there with not altering the Bible to make me God but then who knew how big it would become?) but I like to think I have since made up for it. My blog is a roaring success and my Twitter has more followers than I’ve had serious long-term relationships (by a ratio of 4:0).”

“So what’s next for Sleazy Tiger? I’m sure you ask. The simple fact is that I don’t know. Plans and organisation are for losers. Chaos and coincidence is what has served this Tiger well and will no doubt continue to do so. My hopes for the future are high though. Space travel must come good at some point, as I would like to start my own inter-stellar space force. ‘Sleaze Trek’ I will name it, slogan ‘Boldly going where no man has gone before and where no man will be welcome to return once I’m done.’ I’m also hoping time travel will be invented as I’ve always wanted to sire myself. I remain convinced that no creature other than me could have spawned such magnificence.

But above all I hope that humanity continues to listen to the unconscious genetic remnants of the life we led millions of years ago. Fight or flight or f**k instinct as I like to think of it. Because those base elements are what keeps us from becoming the utopian future of peace, harmony and infinite joy. Long live the reptilian brain and long live sleaze.”

SLEAZY TIGER’S BLOG OF SLEAZE LITERARY INSTALLMENT: PART THREE - DR STRANGETIGER, OR, HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE LIKE A BOMB

“The First World War was the last remnant of my old style of life. The political nous that I had honed in the courts of Europe came to the fore as I enjoyed the last war that would remind me of the classic warfare style of the Middle Ages. An entire generation of good men were sacrificed and all because I convinced the Kaiser that competing with the major world powers would make up for him having a tiny dick. I spent the war in Russia where I had found a kindred soul in Grigori Rasputin. He exerted control of the Tsarina of Russia and used it to manipulate Russian politics, he claimed to be a faith healer, he cavorted with prostitutes and he generally lived the bad life. It was a shame he had to be removed, but I couldn’t let someone live who might conceivably claim to my throne as King of Sleaze. Don’t believe the myth that history tells you though, he’s very much alive. It’s my own fault really. He might have actually given up the will to live after being stabbed, poisoned, shot, clubbed, castrated, drowned and frozen were it not for the fact that I wrote ‘Rasputin was a fairy’ on his dead forehead. This insult was enough to bring him back to life and spend his afterlife chasing me around the world looking to exact revenge. That is one of the reasons I never spend too much time in one place. That and the paternity suits. And the lynch mobs. And the bar bills.”

“The Cold War was the most magical time. One man really represented the entire period for me, and that was John F. Kennedy. It’s a little known fact that I was with him from the start. We were at the movies and this stunning blonde came on screen. JFK turned to me and in his Massachusetts burr said: ‘ST. I believe that this man should commit himself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of hitting that seven-ways-Sunday.’ Ten years later, he was President and was banging Marilyn Monroe whenever his brother or I weren’t. Johnnie knew how to have a good time. I remember with fondness the day he told me he was going to bait Khrushchev over the business with Cuba. At one point he sent a telegram message to Moscow. As I remember it went something like this: ‘BWUKBUKBUKBUK STOP COME ON STOP LAUNCH THEM YOU PUSSY STOP.’ He was a great man and was sadly missed. Though not by me. I did tell him I could hit a moving target at 200 yards but he refused to believe me.”

“...and so I told LBJ, resign now, Ho Chi Minh will cut a deal and you’ll forever be remembered as the President who ended the Vietnam War. You should have seen the look on his face when he realised I was shilling for Nixon. Good ol’ Dick. He wasn’t anywhere near as much fun as JFK or as easy to annoy as LBJ but he sure knew how to be a hated. It might surprise you to know that I had nothing to do with any of his sins. Bombing North Vietnam back to the Stone Age, invading Cambodia, shooting students, bugging the Watergate hotel and lying about it, all him. Were it not for the fact that the man couldn’t get a woman to sleep with him had he covered himself in Prada shoes stuffed with $100 bills I’d have had to deal with him Rasputin style.

Yep, ‘Tricky Dicky’ just couldn’t hit the big leagues. That’s why I always voted Democrat, they knew how to conduct extra-marital affairs. It’s also how I found myself drifting away from politics in the early 90s. Bill Clinton had been amazing. But then he apologised. Never apologise. Never. I knew this was the beginning of the end. Politicians were suddenly accountable. The days of the press ignoring your mistresses were over, the ingrained habit of taking vast sums of dirty money was no longer acceptable, and the amusing occasion on which you spent the gold contents of the Bank of England on a night of rabble rousing causing the devaluation of the pound was suddenly a national outrage. I handed in my resignation and went looking for my next big opportunity.”

SLEAZY TIGER’S BLOG OF SLEAZE LITERARY INSTALLMENT PART TWO - THE ANCIENT HISTORY YEARS:

“...after showing my new Scandinavian friends the meaning of the words ‘rape’ and ‘pillage’ and giving them directions to Lindisfarne, I set off to find a party worth attending. The world at this time could be pretty dull on a small scale. Misdemeanours at a local level were limited to getting steaming drunk on the local ale and then nicking your neighbours goat. Which is fine for a Tuesday night but when you want to create some real chaos it can be a little uninspired. However, what the Middle Ages were good for was a proper war. War these days is all electronics and IEDs, guerrilla warfare and Americans prematurely claiming victory. But in those days they had proper fights. Two nations would line up all the oiks they could conscript from the countryside on opposing sides of a field, give them sharp objects and then massively redecorate the colour of the grass.

To facilitate such events I became a Diplomat of Fortune. I’d spread rumours, create problems and in some cases just mention that the French were getting uppity again. Generally it took little more than a few well placed sentences for me to be able to set up a chair, sit back and watch the land bleed. As much as I enjoyed making wars happen I did like to get into the action every now and again. For instance, I remember playing a hilarious practical joke on King Edward II when I asked him if he thought that object in the sky was an arrow or a bird. We both had a good laugh over that one. Before he bled to death. A great one was when I convinced a servant girl from France that I was God and that she should lead her people in a fight against the English. A little harsh I’ll admit, but I’ve never found a better way of ensuring that a lady can’t get in contact with you after sleeping with them than having them burned at the stake.”

“...but as time wore on I found it all too easy. You just made sure heirs to thrones married into other royal houses and the inevitable succession disputes led to any number of conflicts whilst the inter-breeding led to rulers with the mental agility of turnips. After a while I did begin to wonder if I was becoming too predictable. I felt I needed to become more underhand in my dealings and to circulate a brand of sleaze that would last longer than any King or Dynasty. So I took myself off to Italy to ponder my next move. I met a young wheeler dealer while I was there who would ask constant questions on my new form of rulership and made copious notes. Had I known he was going to nick all my ideas and write a book that would be considered the authority on political bastardry to this day I’d have given him a high-five and then thrown him off the top of the Vatican.

However, I’d become rather enamoured with the drinking culture of that was developing. Champagne, whiskey and other fine intoxicants were becoming popular and I was riding the tide of fashion. This period of my life came to a head in 1550 when I went out for a quiet drink with the Pope Julius III to celebrate his ascension to the role. He brought along a young chap he introduced as ‘Cardinal-Nephew.’ I might have started a rumour that night that the two were an item, but I find it hard to distinguish between the many lies I’ve told about the Catholic church (don’t tell anyone, but without my many sordid stories they’d be known as a really nice group). Anyway, one thing led to another and I woke up with a rather beastly hangover the next day to find it was 1914. Whether I spent this time sleeping off the heavy night or going on one 350 year bender I’ve never been able to figure out.”

SLEAZY TIGER’S BLOG OF SLEAZE LITERARY INSTALLMENT: PART ONE – ST’S INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD

Welcome to the first of four instalments of STBO’s exclusive look at Sleazy Tiger’s autobiography: “I F**ked You’re Mum: the life of Sleazy Tiger.” In this review we will provide an exclusive look at key sections of work.

“Until now my early life has been a mystery to even those who know me well, namely the Police and the Judicial system. It has been something that I have not willingly divulged for reasons that I forget, but I’m sure make perfect sense. When I was but a mewling cub torn cruelly from my mother’s breast I was orphaned at the doors of an ancient monastery in the mountain regions of Nepal. Though this was an unusual situation, as there was a perfectly serviceable Children’s Home in a nearby low-lying village that was far easier to get to, the monks were not surprised. Their entire order had been founded around a prophesy from the mystic text ‘The Kabbalah’. The tale claimed that because everything must have its opposite, unless an ‘Anti-Christ’ arose the world would eventually lose its balance, tip over and spill humanity from its edge. This was of course from the time when the entire human race were a bunch of s**t-wits who thought the Earth was flat and the centre of the universe.

The plus side of religious fanaticism however was that they brought me up to be as bad as I possibly could. From as soon as I could speak I was uttering curses that would make a sailor blush. As soon as I could walk I was taught to strut with the arrogance of a fallen angel. As soon as I had strength enough in my upper body I was taught the correct way to carry stolen items. These were just the tip of the improper iceberg. As I think on it now I realise that those Monks must have done some living before they joined the order, as the subjects they educated me on took some experience. For instance, the lessons with Brother Huwang on the proper method of setting up a Child Sex Ring was impressive and gave me a new found respect for the elderly Crèche Manager.

I spent the first fifteen years of my life in the monastery and enjoyed every moment. But all things must end. In this case, it was when I left town with the charity money intended for the local poor whilst leaving evidence implicating that the monks had spent it on whoring. I was reliably informed that the Monks died at the hands of the lynch mob with the smiling faces of those who knew they were doing God’s work. I walked away with the satisfaction of having stitched up a bunch of idealistic idiots who I had taken for all they were worth. The year was 790 AD and I was young, sleazy and rich. The world was my oyster.”

Sleazy Tiger’s Blog of Sleaze Literary Report:

From the STBOS Literary Columnist:

In a series of staggering news stories in recent months the value of a historian’s word as beyond reproach has been remarkably damaged. First, Stephen Ambrose, the writer of numerous historical books, including the blood ‘n guts and male bonding fest that was Band of Brothers, has been accused of lying in his biography of Dwight D. Eisenhower.

The American General turned President was supposed to have met with the author for ‘several hundred hours.’ However it has been alledged that Ambrose in fact had only 'hours of contact' with the ex-President (a similar situation arose when Evil Joe claimed to have spent time with the great Australian pace bowler Dennis Lillee at his Fast Bowling Clinic, a falsehood that was quickly exposed when he was asked to open the bowling for the First XI) and this quite massive fib has destroyed the credibility of the biography (Evil Joe’s fib destroyed his credibility and his bowling figures). With any other historian this would also have irredeemably tarnished his career, but Ambrose was already known as the kind of sod who would tell you that Dinosaurs were the key naval landing craft in the D-Day landings if he thought you could make a profitable TV series out of it.*

[*This is of course complete tosh. It was the X-Wing squadron led by Wedge Antilles that decisively turned the tide for the Allies on June 6^th.]

This was followed by the equally incredible (but far more hilarious) story involving Orlando Figes the notable Cambridge scholar who graduated with a Double Star First which is also known as the ‘too f**king clever by half’ class. His monumental intellect was matched only by his monumental ego which led him to post glowing reviews of his own books and scathing attacks on his contemporaries’ works on Amazon’s customer reviews feature. The Professor’s ingenious pseudonym of his first name and the University College he worked at was unsurprisingly cracked without the use of an Enigma machine or the need to resurrect Alan Turing.

The sins of these two respected (a bit of a stretch for Ambrose but we’ll allow it) historians came as a shock to us here at STBOS. A greater surprise came when our own Sleazy Tiger was slandered by a reputable historian. Sleazy Tiger’s autobiography has recently been published, entitled: “I F**ked You’re Mum: the life of Sleazy Tiger.” The work provides fans of the wayward rebel a detailed look into his past and the experiences that made him the massive waster he is today. However, noted academic Professor D.O.A. McDull, PhD, MA, BA, WLTM VGL FB, has cast aspirations on ST’s Magnus Opus. In an interview with the Times Literary Supplement Prof. McDull called Sleazy Tiger “...a liar, a cad and a reprobate.” and labelled our role model as a “...falsifier of that which the historian holds must pure, the truth.” Sleazy Tiger responded to this attack by thanking McDull for the kind words but declined to comment further.

STBOS felt that this was an ideal opportunity for an exclusive look (the TLS has already given the work a brief review, the shortest in its one hundred year history: ‘Pure S***e’) at ST’s work. Short passages from the book will be printed in four installments that give insights into the history of our fearless leader and the incidences that made him the Tiger he is today. Sleazy Tiger himself declined to join the discussion of his work. He said he was happy for his words to stand alone and felt they needed no defending: “Unlike Ambrose and Figes” he proclaimed “I have told nothing but the truth. Except in the parts where I didn’t.”

Sleazy Tiger’s Official 2010 ‘British General Election Drinking Game’

In honour of the momentous Election Night that is to come tomorrow and, more importantly, to honour the joyous fact that the Election Campaign will finally be over and the levels of bullshit in the world will become remarkably lower, Sleazy Tiger has printed the ‘British General Election Drinking Game’ rules. Every year, ST produces an updated version of this fine tradition to reflect the current political situation and to adequately get the participant absolutely pished. The origins of the ‘British General Election Drinking Game’ are lost in the mists of ST’s various transgressions, but he believes it started when he was forced by circumstance to follow the 1922 General Election and found it so mind numbingly boring that he took to chugging double G & T’s anytime the radio announcer giggled at the name ‘Bonar Law.’

He has since continued the practice and often invites the candidates along for the fun. So far, the only main party candidate to take up the offer has been Winston Churchill. After drinking the party dry he then went on a joy-ride down the Strand in one of the tanks named for him. The shadowy powers that control World Politics from behind the scenes deemed his actions to be objectionable and stripped him of his rightful election victory. And that’s why the Conservatives surprisingly lost the 1945 election.

The rules of ‘British General Election Drinking’ are simple. If something happens, you take a drink. The substance and quantity of the drink is especially tailored to reflect the significance and character of the result that has occurred. It’s also fun game for all the family* to enjoy in a style that optimises the value of family espoused by the Tories, the boost to the economy championed by Labour and the alcoholism enjoyed by former party leader and current Lib Dem MP [correct at time of writing] Charles Kennedy.

*Note: Children often cannot hold their liquor. Sleazy Tiger blames bad parenting and asks that all small humans who have not been brought up to be able to down 10 shots of Sambuca be excused from the festivities on the grounds that they are wusses.

Drinking concerning the Election outcome:

For every Labour MP elected:

take a drink.

For every Liberal Democrat MP elected:

take a drink [Participants in previous editions of the ‘British General Election Drinking Game’ will have noticed that this is a reduction from the double of previous years].

For every Conservative MP elected:

have your butler pour you a glass of the Château Cher Vin Pretentious and enjoy in your leather wingback with your dogs in front of your roaring fireplace in your country pile. If you don’t have any of these things, take a drink of whatever cheap swill you have and weep for your future pleb.

For every British National Party/English Democrat Party/National Front MP elected:

take a drink, then organise a lynch mob.

For every United Kingdom Independence Party MP elected:

take a drink. Not wine, it’s foreign European muck. Not Leffe, its Belgium. Bloody Brussels, taking all our money. Heineken? Are you having a laugh?

For every Green Party MP elected:

if you did not vote for them, take a double of whatever you like. If you did, take a drink of Camomile tea and get a haircut you damn hippy.

For every Trade Unionist and Socialist Coalition /Socialist Labour Party/Worker’s Revolutionary Party/Communist Party of Great Britain/Communist League MP elected:

take a drink of vodka Comrade and follow me to the Odessa steps!

For every Official Monster Raving Loony Party MP elected:

stop taking acid, take a drink.

For every Sleazy Tiger’s Party of Sleaze MP elected:

down a bottle of Absinthe.

Drinking concerning Election Minutiae:

For every time Gordon Brown looks genuinely happy:

no drink required, not going to happen.

For every time David Cameron tries to play down his poshness:

drink a bottle of Stella in a salute to ‘Dave’.

For every time Nick Clegg makes out that it is a three horse race:

take a drink and laugh at his optimism.

For every time the BBC interviews a celebrity for their opinion:

take a drink and repeat until you pass out and are spared from the torture.

For every time Jimmy Carr looks smug on the Alternative Election Night:

take a sip of water [This is a rehydration rule aimed to keep the participant in the Game all-night long].

For every time David Mitchell says something witty, insightful or clever on the Alternative Election Night:

take a sip of water [See above rule].

For every time the BBC use a fancy graphic to illustrate what they are saying/predicting:

if the graphic is informative, take a drink. If it is not, take a double. If it is utterly pointless, drink in proportion to how utterly pointless it is.

For every time someone mentions ‘Bigot-gate’:

take a double and describe yourself to anyone in earshot as a ‘penitent sinner.’

For every time someone mentions a ‘hung Parliament’:

mix various drinks together and down. Unlike an actual ‘hung Parliament’ this will actually be able to do something. Most likely, causing you to go blind.

You have played the ‘British General Election Drinking Game’! If you’ve made it to the final result, congratulations. You are now horribly drunk and thus ready to face whatever catastrophes the new government will no doubt create.

Sleazy Tiger supports drinking responsibly. Remember, wine then beer, never fear. Beer then wine then whiskey then vodka then amaretto then rum then port then bourbon, never fails.