Stuffing the turkey. Where's the fucking presents, eh?

December 10th, 2006
The Joy of Christmas
As the festive nonsense approaches once more, it becomes time to consider how offensive it is to non-Christians. But rather than trying to change tradition to appease people of other religions, why not simply exclude them thereby allowing them to ignore the whole offensive mess. Of course, some active measures will have to be taken, such as going round all their houses and smashing their TVs so that they can't watch any Christmas specials, or – whatever God they cowtow to forbid – the Queen's speech. There had better be some sort of heavily armed police unit responsible for making sure Hindus don't buy any crackers and Muslims stay away from the turkeys too.
Alternatively, we could accept that the vast majority of people of whatever religion in Britain love Christmas – the office party, the days off, the presents, the shit TV – as much as everyone else. Although, as an evangelical athiest, perhaps the Wasp Box should start on some righteous being offended.
We're all going to have polonium-riddled sprouts anyway or actually get nuked by the Russians who finally get arsed off with being accused of really bizarre assassinations. It seems obvious that Litvinenko was poisoned by the British anyway. Hmm, how do we justify upgrading Trident? I know, lets make a really cackhanded attempt to restart the cold war by sprinkling some radioactive shite on some ex-KGB spooks corn flakes.
It would be great to get the Cold War running again though, what we all need is some proper fucking fear so we can stop worrying about who likes Christmas. Terrorists just don't take peoples minds of things as well as the threat of complete annihilation. Wasp Box will be spending this Christmas in a concrete bunker with 4000 tins of beans and corned beef, an impressive cache of weapons bought cheap from Martin McGuinness and a selection of non-Christian friends. Enjoy.

[clicky big big] Kiss and make up. Gerry and Ian share tracksuits and more, but can they share power? You can guess who's sponge and who's stone.

October 15th, 2006
Mad Cunts Special
After the incredible flatness of the conference season, where we learnt nothing more than Ming is old and dull, Cameron is a toffy-nosed cunt entirely lacking in substance, principals, morals or ideas, Blair is definitely leaving but we still don't know when, and Brown – the apparent Prime Minister elect – is a bit weird and nobody's that sure about him. So absolutely nothing new there then.
So thank God for Northern Ireland – a place that, if there was a God, he'd have long-since forsook given the right fucking cock up of life they've made in his name – where politics are still passionate, violently so. Another attempt to bring peace to that troiblesome corner and make the devolution of power work was bound to bring some excitement. However, for the most part it was business as usual there too. Paisley donned his sash and shouted no a lot, Adams tried to look a bit menacing behind his beard and it's rumoured that Bertie Aherne captured some great cameraphone footage of Peter Hain wanking off Martin McGuinness in the bogs. No real deal, no real progress and the people of Northern Ireland continue to fester under the utter fuckwits they insist on electing.

Of course that was somewhat overshadowed by the world's most secretive, diminutitive and downright cuddly despot finally getting fucked off that, no matter what human rights he abuses, what increasingly bizarre threats he makes, or what size of ridiculous platform soles he chooses to wear, the West simply hasn't been paying him much attention recently. With Iraq somehow managing to escalate still further into chaos, civil war and the US army's enormous BDSM fuck dungeon; Afghanistan returning to bite our arses once more, with the Taliban re-emerging, converging and insurging; Israel continuing to act like the Middle East's schizophrenic uncle, who happens to own a shiney AK; and Iran spouting the sort of rhetoric and invective against anyone and everyone that you'd expect from a pissed up London cabbie, poor Li'l Kim hasn't been able to get a look in. With his secret ways, media

[clicky big big] Peace in the Middle East. Surely beer and bacon brings all men together as one.

lockdown and general impenetrability, he had to throw quite some fucking tantrum to get some much-needed attention. So he pulled on his highest platforms and most boufant wig, packed a truck full of TNT and a little ball of plutonium and drove the whole lot into a hole under a mountain and set it off shouting, "I've brone up a nucrear missile you horrible bastards, and I'll brow up another one if you don't come and play with me, and I'll scream and I'll scream until I'm sick!" and adding, as the tears subsided, "and I don't want to be fwiends with China anymore either." Well, he got some attention and a few more sanctions to play with, so I suppose he's happy enough for now.
Conversely, Li'l Kim's hissy fit for attention gave some of the other tyrants, despots and general bad leaders of the world a little bit of space and some much needed "me time". One who took particular advantage is lovable beardy Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, who probably took a week long break from his own nuclear project to visit his old mate Ehud for a slap-up meal before continuing on to London to visit the Finsbury Park mosque, go on the London

eye, burn the odd embassy and take in the seedier delights of Soho. Of course, it's just as likely that he actually spent the week working out elaborate maniacal plans to wrest our attention away from the half-cocked little nobend in North Korea and back on his own despotism. Expect a truck load of TNT and plutonium, stamped with "Mahmoud's atomic shit" to be driven into Jeruselam any day soon.
Let's hope all these fuckers render themselves sterile playing with their radioactive toys and don't get the chance to breed. Oh Christ – there's already an Ian Paisley junior!

July 5th, 2006

England go out in quarter finals on penalities shock – who'd have predicted that? Anyway, the International Global Soccerball Event is all but over, so it's time to return to the important things in life: stamping on some political nuts and raising both hands to the establishment and shoving it to the ground amid a torrent of fucking abuse.
But actually Wasp Box is too full of beer and sausage to be nasty just now having spent a week enjoying the fußball in Germania. Mind you this shitting heatwave raises the temperature – it's over one hundred thousand degrees pissing Kelvin in this fucking box. Nonetheless we all know summer has its sexy, flesh-exposing advantages… Wasp Box will return after this short break.
Welcome back to the Whoring Wasp Box! And talking of beer and sausages, Fat John has wobbled into the glare of the Tory muckrakers and hate-fuelled press again. It seems that having lost Dorney Wood in a game of high-stakes croquet, he went to the States to try and win it back on the brightly lit tables of Vegas. Sadly, many of the games played there involve counting over 10, so poor John was at an immediate disadvantage and has ended up losing a certain license that apparently wasn't his to give away in the first place.

Oh John, you're one hundred and eight years old, although you don't look a day over 50, why don't you just retire? Think of all the things you can do outside of the pressures of office, all those hobbies you've neglected for all these years. When was the last time you sunbathed naked on Hampstead Heath with all the pretty, sexy ladies? When did you last sing the Village People at karaoke? Belly dance for sangria? Dress up as a nun and go dogging with Edwina Curry? There are pies to be eaten man! Give it up, get out there, live a little – before it's too late. And maybe you can persuade Tony to join you...

May 1st, 2006

Labour day, 9 years of Blair on the throne, local elections very soon – where incumbent governments traditionally take a good pummelling up the jacksie anyway – and Tony’s government is at a low ebb. What to do? Easy: a heady concoction of scaremongering, gross incompetence, and unimaginable, utterly grotesque sex. Yes, Charlie Clarke was charged with personally locating and releasing the most murderously evil, bird flu-ridden psychotic the country held in its teeming jails. No mean task, but Clarkie even managed to find a dirty foreigner to boot! At once he set out to put phase one of the plan into action. He personally went round on his only stubby legs and with his own chubby, near-useless fingers turned the key that released the filthy, sex-crazed immigrant and a thousand or so of her buddies who, irrelevantly, had also completed their sentences.
Now came the clever bit, phase two. Whilst some judiciously smeared Bovril and a well-inserted Pukka Pie was enough to arouse Prezza’s ardour, how to requite that drooling desire?

In the end there was nothing to it. The possibility of a taste of power was enough to get her sniffing around John’s trouser pasty, no matter how lardy and well seasoned it might be. And the promise of a big-money deal with the Sunday muck-rakers to tell her side of a story that no one else had told and no one else wanted to hear the details of – details such as the time in the big man’s office when, after slathering her breasts with pan-fried calves’ liver and stuffing her mimsy with a roulade de foie gras for his slobbering attention and her quivering pleasure, he fitted an entire roll of freshly minted £2 coins into his traditional Cumberland ring for her to suck out – was enough to make the gold-digging attention-seeker take a big meaty, crocodile-teared bite as the whole country tries really hard not to imagine things like having the dripping, slavering maw of Mr P bearing down on you, his full-fat, taste the difference sausage

roll gripped in his enormous paw, dripping its foul effluent as struggle to escape.
If all that doesn’t result in a record vote for Labour on Thursday, the Wasp Box is a dead insect in a shoddily constructed cardboard cube. Hmm, maybe Tony shouldn’t have hired the Sunday Sport’s editorial team as his new spin doctors.

March 20th, 2006
It's Lord Wasp Box now, and don't you forget it. It would be nice to be able to tell you that this elevation in status was just rewards for all the years of well-observed, hard-edged political satire, but we all know that's about as likely as a dead wasp in a cardboard box conquering ancient Ruritania with an army of zombified engorged orca cocks. Although this did of course happen in the late 1980s resulting in one the greatest, yet most short-lived, vespulae-based dictatorial empires of the late 20th Century. But enough about the past, what about this Lordy business. Well, it's all pretty obvious isn't it?

Late last Saturday evening, when your gregarious and fun-loving Wasp Box was holding court before the great and the good in a local tavern, entertaining all and sundry with outrageously embellished anecdotes, witty bons mots and superbly crafted and cutting put-downs, a certain chap, very much the worse for wear, and who shall remain nameless – suffice it to say that he is the current Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland – approached and haltingly explained that he had frittered away the last of his evening's allowance on the fruit machine, nudging on what he thought was a pair of cherries but was in fact perfectly spherical stains on the glass where his fat friend John had being crying tears of blood earlier in the evening having literally filled up his head with goat spleen pies and vinegar balls.
It was clear that this woeful tail was leading up to something, there was clearly more; this sorry fellow was in some way on the make. It turned out that, being the third Friday of the month, it was “special night” for him and his wife, who – to protect the innocent – we'll call Mrs B. Basically, the one night in the month when they found time in their busy lives to pound the living shit out of each others genitals in an all-night, power-fuelled fuck-frenzy. “What's the problem?” you wonder. “Has he got too drunk to perform and is looking for a stand in?” Oh dear God no! What are you thinking? The Wasp Box's love for this woman is a of a purely platonic nature, keep your filthy thoughts to yourself dear reader, no one wants to hear them! No, the problem was more straightforward, the poor fellow just couldn't get it up for his dear lady wife any more, not without the assistance of exactly 14 cranberry Bacardi breezers, and of course, having squandered his pocket money, he'd only had 13. “pleashe lend ush free quid” he slurred in his esturial accent, “but don't tell John, whatever you do. You're my besht mate, I'll make you a fucking Lord I will”. And lo, before you types Lord Wasp Box of Fucking. Yet another over-privileged grumpy old cunt in the upper house making life difficult for the government. Just what this country needs.

Pretty certain. Sir Ming assures us of which bus he arrived on.

February 8th , 2006
February already! What happened to January's rant you could rightly ask! Winter/spring is a traditionally lazy month for semi-incarcerated vespulae, along with summer/autumn. And now, so much has happened it's almost not worth it. But, had your humble Wasp Box been on the ball, last month's waffle would, of course, have returned to party leadership. For it seems the political machinations of last year's conference Leadership contender manbots unleashed by the espionage wing of The Whoring Box (last November)

not only ousted poor old Charlie and started a LibDem leadership contest, it really kicked open a whole nest wasps. Sir Ming must have been laughing himself to sleep every night – after enjoying a clean, sober, thoroughly heterosexual old man's wank of course. Actually, Mark Oaten should rejoin the race, or maybe offer himself up as shadow treasury.Clearly, he's a very canny man – having realised that a thrice weekly poke up a poof prossie's poop piece was costing him a fortune, something his unsuspecting wife might notice, he started an “affair” with the lad and was thus able to quench his thirst for boy-based bum fun for bugger all. That kind of cost saving would make Browno beam with unconvincing joy. That bombshell made Hughsey's little announcement seem pretty tame, and although it wasn't covered on the BBC parliament channel, apparently he could be heard chanting in the House of Commons, “Mark had to pay for his brown cock, Mark had to pay for his brown cock”. This all may or may not make the next general election a bit more interesting, but more than likely it'll be a face off between two dull Scotsmen and Dave. Can't see that improving the turnout without some serious rebranding of democracy.

Lost prophets. No deities or prophets thereof are depicted in this weak pun.

Talking of democracy, all of this has, of course, been overshadowed by the cracking of several eggs of religious intolerance all at once: the government's Racial and Religious Hatred Billis voted down, Griffin got off, Hamza's gone down, and apparently there's a minor hoo-ha in the middle east about the profits at Legoland in Denmark or somesuch. Seems to have boiled over over here too, someone melted Legoland Windsor because they'd run out of bacon rolls as usual. Sandi Toksvig has been very quiet on the matter, and don't think it's because she's never doodled a quick tea towel onto a bearded man's head! Best have some predictions for 2006, World War fucking three brought to a premature end by the mass brain death caused by a new series of Celebrity I'm a Celebrity Dance my Wank Pig on Ice. The Wasp Box off to burn Channel 4's embassy.