The Whoring Wasp Box

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Cliff's earlier versions were far better...

October 31st, 2003
So, the Tories have finally ousted ineffectual "leader" Iain Duncan Smith. Two years since he was plucked from total obscurity and thrust

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Something of the night. A seeming eternity on the back benches and all Howard can do is wait
and watch...

into the wicked maelstrom of relative obscurity, he has

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

finally been plunged back into the sweet oblivion of virtual obscurity. In his illustrious time as "leader" Duncan Smith set the world of politics alight with his flamboyant style and strong "leadership". Employing beautiful and enigmatic wifey Betsy as his personal astrologer and fluffer, Can Smith cloned his way to the top, eventually replacing his short ginger brother William Vague in the role of sacrificial lamb to the slaughter, or "leader" to use party slang. Smith's "leadership" was plagued throughout by his tireless unpopularity and numerous would-be successors masturbating in the wings. Chief among those biding their time, waiting to spill

A week's a long time. Duncan Smith is keen not to end up like this bitter, twisted man, who wanders the carparks of Westminster offering rubbish advice, drinking fine malt whiskies and swearing like a cunting trouper.

his watery, insipid blood was affable nazi, Michael Howard. This personable and good-natured

Ding Dong . The witch is dead. Baroness Thatcher breaks her normal rule of silence to throw in her ha'penneth worth.
The rotten old whore.

fascist finally stroked himself to erection this week, and delivered the fatal blow in time for Hallowe'en. Ith could do little more than look on in bemused befuddlement as his beloved party was wrenched from under him like the cock of a horse being milked by an amiable vet on a wet whitsun morning. Standing aside with uncharacteristic good grace as archrival, the former home secretary and klansman, Howard emerged from his shallow grave as the sole candidate, Th was heard to utter erudite words of support to the "cunt-faced hitlerist". Leader-in-waiting Howard, Widdicombe's evil consort and personal vag greaser, was of course unperturbed

Warned you. Told you big bruv, there ain't no glory in the Tory game. Muthafukka.

by words of discouragement and caution echoing around the halls of Westminster, and vowed to stick by his much maligned policy of death camps. He went on to claim that annexing Poland would be popular with grassroots members and explained that, after all, it is a traditional Tory heartland. The experienced white supremacist and former politician hopes to be installed as party leader by November 5th, when he intends to celebrate by burning the Commons to the ground and extinguishing the embers with his bountiful and distressingly potent satanic seed before sharply clicking his heels and giving the crowd a straight-armed wave.

This episode of the Wasp Box was bought to you by guest ranter Andrew Marr.

September 18th, 2003
Around this time of year the Wasp Box usually begins to feel a little drowsy, a little light in the head, perhaps a little sting-happy,

Fashion today. Here’s a quick and easy guide to what’s right and what’s wrong for this autumn’s Indian summer season.

and, yes, a whole lot of fucking angry. This is a throwback from when the Wasp Box was alive and not semi-incarcerated in a tatty cardboard box. But not this year. As summer refuses to fuck off and leave us alone, as the sun continues beat down with its searing rays, as the roads melt in yet more record temperatures and talk turns inevitably to idle nonsense about global warming, this Wasp Box is still bright and alert (and boiling with rage). This is but an indirect consequence of the high temperatures, the sunshine and the delay of autumn; it’s more directly related to the fact that as long as the girls are still wearing short skirts this Wasp Box is staying awake. That’s if this God awful fucking 80s revival stops right here, nothing is more likely to drive the Wasp Box into a few minutes hibernation than a bloody ra-ra skirt and a pair of leg warmers, not to mention those stupid floppy boots. Although there does seem to be a bit of a fashion for wearing very short tartan schoolgirl-style skirts, of which the Wasp Box approves of thoroughly. A happy result of being wide-eyed and agitated is that the Wasp Box has had an opportunity to partake in Britain’s new favourite past-time: Blaine Baiting. In case this wonderful old sport has

Box fresh. Yeah, good shot Dad, have another pop.

past you by, here is how it goes. Firstly, you take a fat, boring yank - famous for card tricks and inactivity - and trap him in a clear plastic box. Secondly, you hoist the fucker up until his box is dangling a good few feet above the pavement. Now there’s a whole lot of fucking fun right there you might think. But no, the fun has yet to begin. 6 whole weeks of fun: shouting abuse and pelting the fucker with golf balls, eggs, big macs and condoms filled with wee. Of course the fat twat does have a means of retaliation, after all we’re not barbarians, we’re not fucking Victorian about this, no; he can shit on our heads. Only give him a week and he can’t any more, because we’re starving the dumb-assed, street-magicking box dweller. So there he is, suspended in his perspex coffin for 6 weeks, the miserable tourist hordes beneath him, gawping up at him, munching their burgers, shouting their stupid little catchphrases, “David, we love you”, “David, you’re amazing”, “David, you’re showing us what we can

How thoroughly uncivilised. Oliver the Humanzee is not impressed by the monkeyesque behaviour of the unwashed masses.

endure”. Yeah, 44 days of incomparable indifference. “David, piss off you fat yank nobber”. Oh, come on, why can’t you all leave him alone? Keeping him awake all night with your missiles, munching away and forcing him to live in the stench of a greasy burger while he slowly starves? It’s inhumane, we’re not savages, damn you. You’re turning a wonderful spectacle, a remarkable feat of man against nature, this noble fool destroying himself for the sake of art, into some sort of sick freak show, a human zoo, an Oliver the humanzee for the 21st century. What is wrong with you people? For Christ’s sake, just leave him alone, if we all ignore him he might give up and go home.

July 21st, 2003
What a world we live in, the BBC have hounded some poor old scientist into suicide and have forced Gary Lineker to present the golf coverage… and what now? They've only let that cunt Archer out. Surely the end is already upon us. Whatever next?

The fat guy again
The Walrus of sweat. An enormous man sings the sweet melodies of old blue eyes himself, in a very distinctive tone of voice.
Could it possibly be...

Jonathan bleeding (hopefully from the anus) Aitken back on the streets? Why not resurrect Sir Denis and spoil our chances of watching Maggie pine away while you're at it?
Hmm, resurrection. There's a thought. Perhaps the Wasp Box could resurrect Barry White. Clearly the easiest way would be to buy a tin of shoe polish and kidnap Pavarotti. But the Wasp Box is stuck when it comes to finding the opposite of kicking him in the nuts. The best proposal so far is stuffing his under-developed nads into a big sweetie jar and

In the grip of fear. The once tiny and possibly empty loppies of Luciano now swollen into the grotesquely potent, dead and rotting putrescence that is Bazz's big, bouncy balls.

sucking out the air through a pre-prepared tube. This should expand his little plums to enormous size as a vacuum is created and thus deepen his voice to the correct timber (better ideas for lowering Pav's voice to Baz levels can be sent to PavsPods@waspbox.com).
With the

The transformation is complete. Tonight Matthew I am the resurrected zombie corpse of Barry White and I'm going to sing "My Way". Deep and soulful.

simple addition of basic neurosurgical interventions, such as trepanning, the Wasp Box could be in complete control of the fat fuck and make a solid gold, 24 carat, diamond studded fortune touring the world as "The Wasp Box presents Barry White's zombie corpse singing the hits of Frank Sinatra". Aww fuck, the Wasp Box is going to be rolling in it. Literally sleeping in a Swiss bank with the manager's daughter on piles of sticky, salty £2 coins. A sturgeon hanging from the ceiling, kept alive by the new and expensive wonders of modern science, just shitting out caviar from its stinking fish hole. Lobsters milking sweet pearls from oyster's cocks before stuffing themselves with old camembert and boiling themselves alive in premier cru, all the while shoving rare orchids into aardwolves' vaginas. Ahh, that'll be the life. The Wasp Box is off to hire a van, anyone want to help bundle the big wobbly wop in the back and lamp him one on his enormous bearded head? What's that? Of course you can Lord Hutton, of course you can.

May 7th, 2003
The Wasp Box recently spent 2 months imprisoned in Guantanamo bay for the heinous crime of trying to enter America with a slightly sarcastic attitude. This was, of course, a direct threat to America's dominance

Well burger me! Three-year-old boy shows off his impressive guts having recently consumed three-quarters of the World's stereotypes.

over the world of piss-poor humour. The Wasp Box challenges that dominance and claims the shit-encrusted crown of piss-poor humour for its own. Those interminable yanks had not realised that this Wasp has been incarcerated in its own prison-like Box for nigh on 7 years and no amount of double incarceration could hold it. So, the Wasp Box escaped one warm and starry Cuban evening on a wave of sophisticated witticisms and brutal violence. Catching its burger-munching oppressors off guard, and employing a tunnel,

Which way's Iraq? American troops ogle some israeli birds before getting over-excited and aimlessly shooting off their payload. Leaving a terrible mess in the Middle East..

a motorbike, a game of 'soccer' and the all-important boat-made-of-newspaper-mucus-and-tagnuts, the Wasp Box made its way to Canada and freedom. And all those crazy Yanks could do was turn their incredibly accurate, laser-guided, satellite-adjusted, poorly controlled, precision weapons on themselves and their allies, annihilating each other in a humiliating tide of friendly fire whilst viciously oppressing the natives and accusing their friends of terrible war crimes. But this time, their standard response was not sufficient and the Wasp Box escaped unscathed and was soon able to heap barbed and scabrous abuse on its tormentor, the fat, loud, crass, stupid and humourless American stereotype. However, in a bitter twist of irony, the average American citizen completely missed the barely disguised undertones of the Wasp Box's vitriolic outpourings, mistaking them for praise. Bastards.
May 9th, 2003: Of course, when the Wasp Box got to Canada its problems really began. The wheezing, hacking cough, the hot sweats, the shivers, the aches and pains, the headache and the confusion, the loss of appetite and the diarrhoea, and

beautiful eyes, but she's only after your carotids

Masking the problem. A low-tech attempt not to catch a disease that isn't airborne, or an equally low-tech attempt to hide a huge pair of fangs that are dripping with blood and almost visibly screaming for more?

the furious craving for blood products. Yes, the Wasp Box had contracted SARS. Or 21st Century Vampirism as it will become known once the results of the Wasp Box's own multicentred, double-blind, randomised, barely controlled illegal trial are published in next month's Lancet. For your own safety, dear reader, the Wasp Box will let you in on the details. It seems the Chinese and Canadian governments have not only been covering up the extent but also the very nature of the problem. Poorly constructed tales of eminent doctors contracting the disease from hotel lift buttons just don't stand up to close scrutiny. The lack of a pattern reminiscent of an airborne disease could just about be explained that way, but far more likely is a link with the unquenchable thirst for human (preferably female aged 17-–34) blood that the Wasp Box itself experienced when in the grip of the disease. Why was Canada and East Asia so badly hit, when Europe and the US have mostly escaped, could it be the average Canuck male's penchant for petite, far eastern totty and the huge, continuous, outrageous and entirely fabricated trade in young oriental wives between Hong Kong and Toronto? Or the converse and equally spurious trade in fat Canadian girls' menstrual fluids to China for use in traditional medicine? Well, the Wasp Box will let you decide for yourself, but the facts are there if look hard enough.
June 10th, 2003: Summer's here at last. The war is finally over and now the serious business of the year can get underway. Endless tabloid stories about monkeys fighting with aardwolves, housewives finding weeping effigies of the Virgin Mary in wheelie bins, Prince William's cock, and hidden Nazi gold. Oh, and Big Fucking Brother. Instead of everyone concentrating on working out the best way of rebuilding Iraq or debating the merits of the Euro, the nation drools over a bunch of fuck-witted wannabes sitting in their little cage flicking spunk at the cameras and shitting on the kitchen table. And yet, four series in, and still no fucking fuck action. If the housemates were willing to put some effort into it they could really make things awkward for channel 4, just image, eviction night and they can't show the housemates' reaction because Tania, Steph and Ray are simultaneously

Sit up straight love, don't slouch, you'll do yourself a mischief

Cafe culture.
The Waspbox spends all summer never ceasing to be amazed how young ladies forget how short their skirts are, or to put on any kickers...

fellating Jon on the sofa, whilst Federico uses his little erection to piss on the high camera in the corner.

Grass roots politics. Summer, when the parks and gardens of the land are full of the happy sounds of people educating themselves. Whilst wearing very little.

Quite frankly, the Wasp Box would rather watch monkeys fighting aardwolves in a wheelie bin full Prince William's Nazi gold.
What's worse is that the program is watched almost exclusively by young women. Young women who should be out in the sunshine, sitting in the street cafes with their little miniskirts riding up their firm young thighs, revealing a sneaky glimpse of their skimpy g-strings, or who should be gracing our public parks with their lithe, hard, luminously pale and scantily clad bodies. Mmmm, the discarded power suits of beautiful office workers at lunchtime, their tiny push-up bras barely containing their heaving bosoms as the waspish hordes gather for their impending strike. Aaah, the summer – do beware little reader, the Wasp Box's brethren are coming for you, and sometimes there's a sting in the tail.

March 6th, 2003
It may have come to your attention that the Wasp Box has been absent over the early part of this year. Well listen up: few things have happened while the Wasp Box has been away, and those things were all bad: there's the ever-impending but never arriving war with Saddam (see last October ); space shuttle Columbia exploded,

Gun crime.
Watching every motion
In my foolish lover's game
On this endless ocean
Finally lovers know no shame
Turning and returning
To some secret place inside
Watching in slow motion
As you turn around and say
Take my breath away
Take my breath away

killing only seven, but dashing the hopes of millions of prepubescent young boys; Mathew Kelly was released, raising the hopes of millions of prepubescent young boys. And that's about it. Surely this is all the evidence you need that a much more vengeful, angry, malevolent and interesting God is needed to spice up your dull little lives. Nearly 3 months into the year and what have we had, 7 dead astronauts and a single earthquake. Oh come on God, let's get original! We have disastrous earthquakes every couple of months and we had 7 dead astronauts on almost exactly the same day 17 fucking years ago! At least that year, 1986, had Chernobyl, Halley's comet, the discovery of HIV, Top Gun, and Maradonna's hand-of-God goal. And that's the last time the hand of God was interesting.

Well, the time has come to reveal where the Wasp Box has been, to fill you in, to enlighten you, to wash your brain. The Wasp Box has spent the last 2 months working for Clonaid™, as a clone aide, aiding the production of clones. It might surprise you to learn that this did not involve the thick, virulent seed of the

Duncan Buddhew. Bald on head and chin, swims like a fish, but scrotum may be empty.

Wasp Box's sting, although, of course, the Wasp Box had ample opportunities. No, the Wasp Box was researching the Raelians to see what was required before one could start a new religion and get on TV. It turned out that the answer was staring the Wasp Box in the fucking face, very nearly quite literally.
Yes, a beard! All religions, minor and major, require a bearded leader. With the exception of Buddhism, but presumably Buddha was some sort of eunuch or fat bald woman anyway; he certainly didn't have any bollocks.

But look: Mohammed was almost certainly

Chest problems. Hanuman, bearded Hindu monkey God, shows off his tats.

bearded, Confucius had a sort of stringy beard and moustache, at least some of the Hindu gods are bound to be multi-bearded, Sikhs have all got beards because Guru Nanak said they should have, so he must have had one himself, Judaism has Moses and Christianity has Terry Waite -– the bearded mediator. Then there's

Waite up. Bearded mediator bought peace to the Lebanon, swapping his freedom for a slot on TOTP.

Rael himself, David Koresh, Charlie Manson, Mullah Omar and Noel Edmonds -– the list is truly endless!
So, enough of the background, the Wasp Box has a 2-month-long beard of the most beautiful yellow and black fur, a serene outlook, a powerful sting and an increasingly desperate need for semi-naked, beautiful, willing and/or brainwashed young ladies. The Wasp Box needs your love and would also quite like your money.
Dammit, enough is enough, just get down on your knees; the Wasp Box is your new God!
Last year the Wasp Box spelt out what it expected from the future, and that's how it's going to be. Firstly, all you young ladies can start wearing tin foil mini skirts and other

Angel of Death. TV 'entertainer' Edmonds, best known for the massacre of innocent members of the public in zany stunts, and succesfully negotiating with Noel's house party guest, the Ayatollah Khomeini.

skimpy items of metallic clothing (soon to be available in the Tat shop). Actually, that's probably enough, as long as the worshipping is there, by which the Wasp Box means hard, penetrative sex with multiple young ladies, simultaneously. But, assuming there's time, and the money is rolling in and the beard remains thick and strong, we can start brainwashing scientists and set them to work. Looks like we mostly need physicists, which is just as well since those damnable Raelians have got all the biologists, although we need at least one bioengineer to turn

Hard man. Top-knotted, monkey-alien, clone freak, Rael, showing off his gigantic, bulbous-headed, golden erection.

the Wasp Box into a giant brain-eating monster. C'mon congregation, this is going to be fucking fun.
When the Wasp Box is God there'll be all manner of 'Act of God' amusement. It'll be even better than 1986: Swarms of randy monkeys with their cuddly but disturbingly violent love-making technique, rivers running brown with booze, talking burning hedgehogs, a plague of priapism and a plague of gash-frothing, followed by 40 days and 40 nights of continuous multiple orgasms. Oh, and that'll only be the beginning. It was true all along: the Wasp Box is the second coming of Christ All-Fucking-Mighty. Bow before the new messiah.

We must learn the lessons of the past if we are to progress into the future.

Find even earlier lessons here
2001 2002

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