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.”