December 2001 The Wasp Box gets into the festive spirit: Ahh, Christmas. The light in the middle of another long dark winter. Mince pies, crackers, plum duff. A fat man in a red suit giving presents to little kiddies and no doubt offering puppy visitation rights - at a price. Crass commercialisation: baby wee-wee, escape from Tracey island, Action Man versus  Dr X. Christmas time, mistletoe and wine, children singing - Shut it Richards. Office parties: people the Wasp Box hates trying to make the Wasp Box dance while the Wasp Box forces another vodka into its abdomen in a desperate attempt to forget. Another yellow and black-striped jumper that the Wasp Box has to pretend to be grateful for, whilst the cat vomits on the Wasp Box's sting as it gets over-excited after drinking too much sweet German wine. Roy Wood's Wizard making enough money from that damned song to stay alive another year whilst another generation is traumatised by the Wizard of Oz. Bah-sodding-humbug. The Wasp Box wants a new bike. next

November 2001 The Wasp Box watches another B-list celeb go down: Of course the Wasp Box despises kiddy-fiddlers as much as the next semi-incarcerated insect. But chirpy music impresario Jonathon King a buggerer of young boys? The Wasp Box finds it difficult to believe. Using charm, intelligence and deviousness to seduce adolescent boys. Charm? King? The Wasp Box reckons the judge was having a laugh. The smarmy pop pervert used his grotesquely caricatured celebrity status to charm impressionable young lads out of their pants and get into their anuses. And now he'll rot in jail for 7 years. And that's just the start. The Wasp Box can think of many other well-known 'personalities' who could be similarly fitted up and sent down. Get them out of our tellies and into our prisons. Barrymore, he may have got away with one 'incident', but the Wasp Box is going to fabricate a story so believable and so sordid they'll bring back hanging. And send him to the moon so he can't breathe. The Wasp Box thinks it's time for Justice. next

October 2001 The Wasp Box worries about Anthrax:The Wasp Box likes a good war as much as the next man. Air strikes, hand-to-hand combat, tactical manoeuvres and big ships blowing unholy fuck out of a few helpless ragheads with their Cruise missiles. But the Wasp Box is mightily afeared of this new-fangled bio-terrorism. The Wasp Box will no longer open its mail, refuses to approach talc, vim or cocaine without an ABC suit and has slaughtered all the innocent beasts of the field in the Wasp Box’s neighbourhood. The Wasp Box has purchased a slightly rotten WWII gas mask, made out of toilet roll innards and ladies stockings and is holding its breath until further notice. The Wasp Box thinks it’s time to die. And then rise from the grave like Christ all-fucking-mighty. The Wasp Box is the new messiah. next

September 2001 The Wasp Box rails against the Taliban: The Wasp Box despises the oppression of women, and believes everyone has a right to be educated and speak out for what they believe. The Wasp Box believes women should not be withheld any right granted to men, particularly if it means they have to cover up their lithe young bodies instead of cavorting around the desert in skimpy crop tops and mini skirts that barely cover their daring lacy g-strings. Alphabetically the first country in the world, Afghanistan has little else going for it: dust, terrorism, American bomb craters and opium poppies. The Wasp Box loves a bit of smack and regularly injects pharmaceutical diamorphine into theWasp Box’s thorax and the Wasp Box firmly believes the ordinary Afghan people should not be punished for the actions of an evil few. The Wasp Box thinks the violence must end. And then bomb them back to the stone age. The Wasp Box needs its fix. next

August 2001  The Wasp Box is on holiday: The Wasp Box is on a Greek beach with the unwashed masses desperately trying to tan their filthy, pale, purulent flesh. Ill-fitting thongs and sagging breasts hanging onto flabby bellies. And that’s just the men. Bottle-blonde Essex girls struggling with their drachma as they order another pina collada and flash their hard, young, augmented bosoms at the oil-slicked Greek lothario who dipped his tiny, syphilitic nob into the cherry moments earlier. The Wasp Box sips a Mythos and struggles through a plate of kleftiko, choking on the tortured lamb as a firm-bodied Dutch tart strides by with barely an inch of fabric covering her soft, beautiful triangle. The Wasp Box would like to teach her some humility. And then spread her legs and fuck her until she bleeds. The Wasp Box thinks it’s time to go home. next

July 2001 The Wasp Box laughs at Jeffrey Archer: The sun is blazing, the Wasp Box can hear the thwack of leather on PVC plastic and the happy buzz of the summer riots. And Jeffrey Archer has gone down. The Wasp Box thinks he deserves everything he gets and hopes that many large men bugger him repeatedly before he gets transferred to an open hotel-style prison. He should be stripped naked and publicly flogged with his own rancid, ripped-off novels. What’s more the Wasp Box thinks he should be treated with a little more respect, so he’s made a few mistakes in the past, haven’t we all? The Wasp Box certainly has and wouldn’t want to be banged up for them. The man’s done a lot of good work for charity and his fantastic books have entertained housewives across the nation for generations. And then strip him of his peerage and flail him alive.  The Wasp Box thinks enough is enough. next

May 2001 The Wasp Box wants its oats: Spring is in the air and the Wasp Box has got the horn. Hibernation through the long winter leaves the Wasp Box’s knackers swollen and sore, and the Wasp Box thinks it’s time to empty them. The young ladies in the streets with their cropped tops and short skirts have the Wasp Box screaming with rage and frustration, leading to dark thoughts in the Wasp Box’s head. The Wasp Box’s sting pulsates with gallons of barely-contained seed, and the Wasp Box wants to spray it over the lot of ’em. And then cut off their genitals so they can’t breed. The Wasp Box thinks it’s time for love. next

April 2001 The Wasp Box speaks out on tube strikes: Don’t get the Wasp Box wrong, the Wasp Box is a political animal. But these tube drivers aren’t interested in safety; it’s all about money. And the Wasp Box knows that tube drivers get paid a King’s ransom. What do they do all day, the Wasp Box wants to know? Well, the Wasp Box will tell you, they sit on their fat arses and plummet headlong into a stinking old pipe at break neck speed, time and time again. The Wasp Box says they deserve their huge cash bonuses, and it doesn’t do the lardy worker any harm to have to crowd onto a sweaty bus that’s going nowhere once a month. And then make ‘em walk at gunpoint.  The Wasp Box thinks it’s time for action. next

March 2001 The Wasp Box speaks out on Sven Goran Ericsson: The Wasp Box sees little to cheer about in the England team. Narrowly beating Finland and Albania is no cause for celebration. The Wasp Box laughs at the notion of little boy Beckham as captain and wishes he’d stick to crosses and corners, like Fergie makes him. The Wasp Box likes a nice round ginger tart like Fergie. Fellow ginger Paul Scholes makes the Wasp Box laugh too, with his cheeky face and off the ball antics. Driving his way into the box, thrusting forward like a big ginger cock. Don’t talk to the Wasp Box about the Neville brothers, the Wasp Box would have them hung, drawn and quartered. And then cut off their genitals so they can’t breed. The Wasp Box thinks it’s time for change. next

Feb 2001 The Wasp Box speaks out on foot and mouth: The Wasp Box sympathises with the plight of the farmers in the UK. The Wasp Box understands the trauma they must be going through as they charge around their empty fields in their Rollers, laughing at the burning corpses and hapless army cadets banging nails into the back of a fat porkers’ head. Have you ever been to Cumbria? The Wasp Box likes the Lake District, but says that Carlisle stinks and the Lanes shopping centre is the worst example of a big piece of shite as the Wasp Box has ever had the displeasure to come across. Let the animals die is the Wasp Box’s opinion; we can get more. And fine the farmers for their stupidity and greed. And then cut off their genitals so they can’t breed. The Wasp Box thinks it’s time for change. next

Jan 2001 The Wasp Box is sick of this year already: The Wasp Box has a terrible hangover and thinks 2001 can only get worse. The Wasp Box thinks the last 12 months were bad enough, but reckons the next 12 are going to be right stinkers. The Wasp Box predicts war and pestilence, famine and death. The Wasp Box knows the score and intends to go out and enjoy itself. A non-stop procession of drink, drugs and women is on the Wasp Box’s cards. A rollercoster ride hedonistic joy. Leading to certain institutionalisation. The Wasp Box is looking forward to a great year. At the start of a fucking terrible century.

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