The Christmas Experiment

"It was like the climax of Quatermass and the Pit! People were running around attacking anybody who wasn't shopping, whilst a huge image of Santa Claus shimmered over the shopping centre bellowing 'Ho, ho, ho'!" exclaims Ned Hobwalt, who claims to have witnessed what police have described as a 'Christmas shopping fuelled riot', which erupted in Newbury town centre earlier today. During a two hour period, thousands of shoppers, apparently in the grip of seasonal shopping frenzy, started physically assaulting eachother. "I saw one poor bastard surrounded by a mob of them outside Debenhams and beaten with artificial Christmas trees," asserts Hobwalt. "Other people were being pelted with Christmas baubles, whilst one guy was buried under a pile of Tesco's Finest Christmas puddings. It was terrifying! The attackers all had this maniacal gleam in their eyes as they set about their victims!" According to the fifty-two year old plumber, the only thing the victims seemed to have in common was their lack of festive shopping. "They were all just trying to do their regular shopping," he notes. "None of them had mince pies or turkeys in their bags - a fact which seemed to enrage their attackers!" Hobwalt himself nearly succumbed to one of the attackers, an elderly lady, apparently possessed y the evil spirit of Christmas, attempting to strangle him with a string of Christmas lights. "Luckily, I had some Brussels sprouts in the bottom of my shopping bag," he reveals. "As I lost consciousness, I dropped the bag and they came tumbling out - she immediately released her grip and went to find another victim! Those sprouts saved my life!"

Despite the local police's attempts to calm the situation, claiming that the disturbance was sparked by a local Sainsburys branch running out of egg nog, resulting in enraged shoppers turning over vehicles in the car park and setting them ablaze, rumours of a more sinister origin for the riot persist. "A bloke who works for the council told me that when they were excavating a hole to plant the municipal Christmas tree in, they uncovered a mysterious object," confides Hobwalt. "He reckoned it was some kind of ancient casket, possibly containing the remains of some Iron Age chief, or something. He thinks it could have set off some kind of pagan curse against the Christian hijacking of the mid-winter festival!" According to other reports, the object took the form of a giant Christmas present, wrapped in scarlet paper and tied up with gold ribbon. When opened, the Christmas paper-wrapped remains of several alien beings were discovered in the box. "The evolution of Christmas was clearly the result of alien intervention," opines Dan Friddles, a local window cleaner and president of the West Berkshire Flying Saucer Society. "When the box was opened, it triggered some kind of primal instinct in the true descendants of the aliens to purge society of all those not fully committed to the festival!" Others suspect that the riot was the result of an experiment by the retail industries to spark a consumer spending frenzy during the recession. "My mate who works for the water company says they put something in the local reservoir to create a shopping frenzy," says refuse collector John Spreckfold. "But the experimental drug they used was too powerful, and turned half the population into Christmas-obsessed homicidal maniacs!" The police continue to deny all such explanations for the riot, maintaining that it was fuelled by alcohol and seasonal stress, and insisting that the mysterious object discovered during the planting of the tree was merely an old sofa, whilst the giant Santa Hobwalt claimed to have seen was simply an inflatable Christmas decoration which had broken free and had floated over the town centre.

First Person Shaggers

So, getting back to this computer game business - having established that if such games concerned players shagging women for points, rather than killing people, then there might be more of an outcry, the next question is, what would make such a scenario more acceptable? What if it was shown that people who played these 'third person shagger' games were less likely to commit sexual offences than those who didn't? Would that make such games acceptable,even if they allowed players to indulge in illegal and sexually violent acts against virtual women? Could the prospect of a safer society outweigh our moral objections to even the concept of sexual violence against women? Can we justify 'virtual rape' whilst still condemning real rape? Does this, in some way, imply that we are condoning real sexual assaults? Maybe if these games were only used as a form of therapy for sex offenders, would that be OK, if it reduced the chances of them re offending? After all, would that be so different from those programmes were drug addicts are prescribed quantities of heroin in order to manage their addictions?

OK, so we might be alright with these hypothetical games if they reduced sex offending and were used as therapy for rapists. But what if this treatment was extended to other sex offenders, peadophiles, for instance? Would it be acceptable for nonces to be allowed to molest virtual children in a virtual world, even if it reduced kiddie-fiddling in the real world and made our real children safer? Are there boundaries to our tolerance of virtual sex and violence? But of course, all this is hypothetical, just as the 'victims' of sexual violence in these non-existent games would be. Why get worked up about something that isn't real and hasn't happened? But the fact is that some people do get worked up about the virtual world when it comes to virtual violence. With good reason, perhaps. It isn't quite as easy as I first thought to separate completely what goes on in the virtual world and what happens in real life. As games graphics get ever more realistic, it's going to get even more difficult to distinguish between real and virtual. Before you know it, we'll have 'first person shaggers' with multi-player options. Before you know it, people will be busy performing the most unspeakable perversions on each other's avatars - imagine the moral dilemmas that will raise.

"What's Aught, But as 'Tis Valued?"

Increasingly, it seems, the idea that if one provides one's work on a non-profit basis, then it is essentially worthless. In the forefront of this movement are the likes of Rupert Murdoch, who is seeking to end 'free news' on the web, and doesn't want 'parasites' like Google News from 'stealing' his newspapers' content. Quite apart from the fact that the 'free news' he hates most - BBC online news - isn't actually 'free', I've already paid for it through my licence fee, his attitude shows a fundamental misunderstanding of what search engines and feed aggregators actually do. Most of us go out of our way to get our headlines picked up by them - they're simply a means of distribution. When someone clicks on your headline in - say - Google News, it is your site they go to, your adverts they see, your story they read. I'm not quite sure what there is to object to there! The problem with rapacious capitalists like Murdoch is that they cannot conceive of there being any motive for any kind of creative activity other than profit. I pity them. Greed rarely produces good art. But it isn't just Murdoch. Increasingly I find that the web is dominated by the 'get rich quick' merchants, promoting their various schemes for making 'millions' through your website.

Now, don't misunderstand me, I have nothing against people making money from their work. My problem with these guys is that it is all geared to making money without any work or creativity. Nowhere in their schemes do they ever address the key matter of content. If you don't have decent content, then your site really will be worthless. But clearly, content is irrelevant when it comes to making money. It's simply a question of using any means (no matter how dubious) of getting your site highly placed in search engines so that there's a chance the unwitting will click on your page and then click on your ads. Sites are just platforms for adverts. Of course, most of these net gurus have their own blogs, where they claim to provide great content, dispensing their wisdom. The reality is that all these blogs do is tell you about how much money they've allegedly made from their 'get rich quick' schemes. Utterly worthless, in other words. Some claim that you can sell any product using their methods. From what I can see, all that most people 'sell' using these schemes, is the scheme itself, by acting as an affiliate. Slowly, but surely, the web is being choked by their crap.

I fondly remember the 'good old days' of the web, when most sites seemed to be run, out of love, by amateurs. People had weird, wonderful and frequently creaky homepages. Today, of course, we all use social networking sites to establish our 'web presence'. I know that these are undoubtedly more efficient, more secure and far slicker, but they're also so bloody bland! I miss those old, highly individualistic, homepages! It all seemed like a brave new world, where old forms of commerce could be abandoned and new values invoked. An oasis of pure creativity. Sadly, it seems that, in its desperate quest for profit, the 'real' world has increasingly taken a grip on the web, and the amateurs - myself included - find ourselves ever more marginalised. But getting back to my original point - why should the only value placed on creative product be monetary? Surely it has value in itself? Just because I don't charge for my writing online doesn't make it inherently less worthwhile that anything produced by News International, for instance. But according to both Murdoch and the ever increasing numbers of web-profiteers (who have neither content nor actual products to sell), I'm just a crazy idiot.

Third Person Shagger

Going back to my last, rambling and barely coherent, post, I ended up concluding that violence in computer games was basically harmless, as most people can tell the difference between reality and fantasy. I'm guessing that most people would agree with this. But I set to thinking - what if it wasn't violence which was being portrayed? What if it was sex? Imagine if people were playing a game - let's call it a 'third person shagger', perhaps - in which their avatar has to have sex with as many game characters, in as many positions and combinations, as possible in order to gain points? Would we think that was OK? I suppose that you could argue that as long as the sex was 'consensual', in that the avatars on the receiving end weren't coerced, then it might, just about, be considered relatively harmless. But what if you could commit illegal acts in the game, in much the same way that players can commit 'war crimes' in war games? What if players were able to virtually 'rape' other characters? What if they were able to engage in sexual acts with 'underage' characters in the game? Suddenly, what seemed OK if it was confined to committing acts of fantasy violence seems morally dubious.

The argument that experiencing violent computer games could desensitise players to real life violence seems more plausible if you substitute 'sex' for 'violence'. After all, wouldn't such hard core sex games represent the ultimate in the objectification of women (you can guarantee that they'd be mainly aimed at, and played by, men)? Doesn't seem more likely that people who play such games might be more likely to commit sexual offences against women in real life? Or can we just dismiss such qualms, saying that people can discern between reality and fantasy? After all, is anything I've described as happening in these hypothetical 'third party shaggers' any worse than the average bloke's masturbatory fantasies, (actually, I don't know whether peadophilia features in such things, but most men certainly admit to having rape fantasies), and the overwhelming majority of them don't go out and rape for real, do they? Or is it possible that because such games would make these fantasies 'consensual', allowing participants to realise that they are a shared experience, that players would think that they were somehow, OK? Frankly, I don't know. All I know is that I've now confused myself as to my attitude toward violent computer games! I suppose it's a bit like pornography - it's easy to say that it is basically harmless as long as the women involved haven't been coerced. After all, they're complicit in their own exploitation, aren't they? But then you have to ask yourself, would I feel the same way if it was my girlfriend/wife/sister/daughter/mother posing naked, for thousands of strangers to ogle at their bodies and probably whack off over? Not so harmless now, eh?

A History of Virtual Violence

Apparently you can commit acts in certain video games which, if players were to do the same thing in real life, would constitute war crimes. Quite why anyone would conduct a study to establish this fact is beyond me. But they have. Moreover, they've called upon game designers to incorporate safety mechanisms within games to simulate the international laws which supposedly regulate the conduct of warfare, and would therefore prevent players from committing atrocities. Or, at the very least, make them aware that they are about to become a (virtual) war criminal. I have problems with all of this on several levels. Most significantly, I really can't be bothered to get worked up into a moral outrage over something that hasn't really happened - it's all just a game. Nobody really got killed. No real war crimes have ever been committed n the virtual world - because it isn't real. Of course, there's the hoary old question as to whether people's behaviour in the real world is affected by what they watch on TV or their games consoles. Personally, I've never been convinced that there is a causal link between experiencing make-believe violence and actually committing violent crimes. And why is it only horror films and war/action based games which supposedly cause violent outbursts in their viewers? Couldn't watching Holocaust on TV result in viewers finding themselves gripped by the urge to go up to Golders Green and murder thousands of Jews, as Peter Cook claimed on one the Derek and Clive records?

Of course, the critics would argue that that's the difference between games and most other forms of entertainment which depict violence - the lack of a moral framework. Books, films and TV series usually place violence within a social and legal contest, showing its consequences, whereas in games, the player rarely suffers any comeback as the result of their actions. True, but in real life, people generally don't stop to think of the consequences. After all, in the heat of battle, do combatants actually stop and think, "Oh God, I'd better not kill these prisoners as, under the Geneva Conventions, I could be tried as a war criminal!" The evidence of the Iraq war is that such international agreements do not act as a constraint for many participants, on all sides. Consequently, building them into games wouldn't be terribly realistic. Ultimately, it all comes back to the fact that these games are fantasies. The people who play them are never likely to even get close to doing any of the things they do in these games. Which, of course, is the whole point. Furthermore, there's the question of opportunity. Even if someone was to be influenced by playing, say, Call of Duty, and became a raving psychopath, the chances of them actually being able to re-enact anything from the game are minimal. Contrary to what the Daily Mail would have you believe, it is far easier to obtain a games console in this country than a firearm. Let alone hand grenades, flame throwers, bazookas, tanks and heavy artillery. At the end of the day, I'd rather people carried out virtual violence and war atrocities, rather than the real thing.

The Sleaze Winterval Appeal 2009

As the Christmas lights in my local town centre were officially switched on today - accompanied by an unheralded firework display which startled the shit out of me as I sat watching Home and Away, I thought that Chicken Kong, the really crap movie monster, had returned to ravage the town again, or that an alien invasion had started - I thought that it might be a good time to launch this year's Sleaze Winterval Appeal. After all, although it's still only the middle of November, the festive season already seems to be in full swing, with most shops now festooned with tinsel and fir trees. Damn it, not only has that Christmas shop full of festive tat already appeared, (do they actually rent those premises, or do they just wait for a shop to fall vacant around this time of year and break in, figuring that by the time the lease holders have gone to court it will be January and they'll have moved on?), but Santa and his reindeer will be visiting the shopping centre next Sunday! Still,I suppose he has to start his personal appearances early - there are a lot of shopping centres to cover and he still has to prepare for his Christmas deliveries.

Anyway, getting back to the Winterval Appeal, this year I thought that maybe we could do something for the homeless. Clearly buying the Big Issue from down and outs, or simply giving them money doesn't work. They're still bloody there the next day. Not that I'm a Daily Mail reader who thinks that these guys are all professional beggars, mind you. However, I couldn't help but notice several of my local homeless beggars surreptitiously talking on mobile phones recently. Obviously, hand sets are very cheap and pay as you go schemes make getting connected simple and inexpensive. Nevertheless, I was struck by the fact that their phones were all much higher spec than mine - you'd think that if you were homeless, you'd only need the basic functions. But back to the appeal. Clearly, giving them money is pointless, it just gets spent on booze, drugs and premium porn lines. They need to be helped to help themselves. What these people need are homes, so I'm proposing that we help them build their own homes. Nothing grand, mind you. Just giving them the materials to build themselves a basic shelter. So, that's what I'm proposing - that every time you see a homeless person you chuck a brick at them. Trust me, if only a few people a day carried out this act of charity, within a week the average beggar would have enough bricks to build themselves a modest hovel to protect them from the elements. There you have it - this Winterval just throw a brick at a beggar. You know it makes sense!

Tuned In and Turned On

Just what is it that stir’s your love juices when you’re watching TV. Come on, you know we’re talking about - most blokes of a certain age can surely recall eagerly sitting through episodes of The Sweeney in the 1970s waiting for that occaisional topless scene, the flash of exposed nipple which would give you the horn, right there on the sofa! Remember how you had to use a strategically placed copy of TV Times or Look In to conceal your tumescent tent pole? And how you had to scuttle off, doubled up, to the toilet for a quick wank to relieve all that pent-up sexual frustration? Ah, those were the days, when the most satisfying moments of your adolescent life involved squeezing a spot or tossing off over the lingerie pages in your mum’s latest Marshall Ward mail-order catalogue. Personally, I can remember getting quite aroused at a very early age by the sight of Diana Rigg being tied to some railway track in an episode of The Avengers, thereby leading to a lifelong interest in bondage.

So, exactly what is it that you get your todger out to on the telly? Maybe its a particular presenter - I’ve heard that Penny Smith on breakfast television provides some ‘morning glory’ for many viewers, whilst TV chef Delia Smith, forever extolling the virtues of ‘cooking’ for one, has caused a few yolks to be spilt - or a particular series which provides good ensemble inspiration for masturbatory fantasies - Baywatch, perhaps? Perhaps its all those golden-skinned girls in their tight tops in those Australian soaps that make you spill your love porridge all over the screen. For many it might be a particular feature film which, when seen in the privacy of your own living room, has you reaching for the tissue box. Basic Instinct - a film which apparently had cinema ceilings dripping with jism - has also resulted in a few unsightly stains on sofas up and down the country when shown on ITV and Channel Five. But ladies, don’t feel left out! We want to hear what it is that gets you doing the two-fingered slot rhumba - is it the sight of Kirk Douglas’s leathery arse (flashed at the camera in just about every film he’s made since 1968), or his son Micheal’s increasingly wrinkly backside (flashed at the camera in just about every film he’s made)? Perhaps you’ve injured your neck craning to see if you can catch a glimpse of the young Donald Sutherland’s silent flute in Don’t Look Now? Or maybe its Sean Connery’s hairy chest - there’s no accounting for taste.

Whatever it is that does it for you, we want to know. Just list your top five TV treats which stir your trousers or part the red sea (depending on your gender) and send them to us - if they match the top five compiled by our panel of top TV wankers, including Jimmy Saville, Noel Edmonds and Timmy Mallett, you could (but probably won’t) win a fabulous monkey picture from the editor’s extensive collection. (But remember, bona fide porn flicks like Erotic Inferno, The Opening of Misty Beethoven or anything with John Holmes, Linda Lovelace, Mary Millington or Robin Askwith in, doesn’t count).

The Witches of Westminster

The government’s programme of anti-witchcraft legislation appears to be increasingly under threat, with shocking revelations that a top Cabinet Minister was, himself, once involved in illegal black magic, and growing pressure from pro-witchcraft groups to de-criminalise the black arts. Labour insiders fear a damaging schism in the party's leadership following the revelation that Business Secretary Lord Mandelson had, earlier in his career,used voodoo for personal gain. It has been alleged that whilst a minister in Tony Blair's government, Mandelson engaged the services of a Brazilian witch doctor to curse his political arch-rival, then Chancellor of the Exchequer Gordon Brown. Suspicions were roused at the time when Mandelson collapsed in fits of hysterical laughter when Brown reportedly began spewing up frogs during a function at Downing Street. His skin later erupted huge weeping pustules. Labour insiders have claimed that Brown’s ordeal only ended after Tony Blair himself conducted an exorcism and performed a laying on of hands. However, Mandelson was unable to capitalise on Brown's misfortune, being forced to resign from the cabinet as a result of his involvement in certain financial irregularities.

Mandelson’s involvement in the affair was finally uncovered when the letter of thanks he had written on House of Commons headed note paper to the witch doctor recently came to light, and was published by a tabloid. “It's a potential disaster for us”, confides a Labour Party source. “Not only does it risk reigniting open political warfare between Brown and Mandelson, but it makes us look like a bunch of hypocrites!” There have also been calls from several pro-witchcraft groups for the government to ease restrictions on the use of magic, claiming that witchcraft was an integral and traditional part of British rural life. They also asserted that the low-level forms of witchcraft, such as healing and fortune-telling were no more harmful than hunting or battery-farming. The government has responded angrily to these claims, claiming that research conclusively proved that supposedly harmless activities such as tarot reading or water-divining were merely the precursors to hard-core magical practices such as voodoo and demonic materialisations.

This isn't the first time that Labour's commitment to stamping oout the Black Arts has come under threat. During the 2001 election campaign it found its witchcraft policy increasingly coming under attack, with Deputy Premier John Prescott being assaulted by an angry Wiccan in North Wales. When the wild-eyed, naked and wode daubed High Priest leapt out of the crowd and attempted to hit Prescott with his wand, aides were worried that the Deputy PM - who had once worked as a gypsy fortune-teller in a fairground - would retaliate by cursing the wiccan. There was a collective sigh of relief from the Labour leadership when Prescott confined himself to hitting the marauding pagan with his crystal ball. In another incident, the Prime Minister was harangued in Walsall by a self-proclaimed white witch, who claimed that new legislation was preventing her from using her powers to cure her sick husband., who couldn’t be treated by conventional means because of NHS waiting lists. Environmentalists also attacked the government’s witchcraft policies, claiming that mass witch-burnings in Cumbria and Cornwall had released the same level of pollutants into the atmosphere in two days as five coal-fired power-stations would in a year.

The Way Ahead

Its all systems go again over at The Sleaze. After a disappointing few weeks traffic-wise, with none of the October stories exactly setting the world on fire, and a less than enthusiastic response to November's first offering, Wild Man of Westminster, we're bouncing back with I Spit on Your War Grave - a provocative title and near-libellous content, surely a winner? I'm hoping to get a second story up onto the site this week, to tie in with the BBC's annual Children in Need telethon. Don't worry, I've not gone soft. We're not going to be supporting a charity appeal, rather we'll be making an attempt to exploit it for cheap and smutty laughs. After that, we'll be heading for December and Winterval. Plans are already being drawn up for a festive-themed story. There'll probably be just the one this year (frankly, I'm running out of ideas for Christmas stories - Santa's already been on strike, been killed, accused of being a terrorist, come out as gay and has been exposed as a white supremacist over the years).

Undeterred by the lack of interest shown in last year's Christmas ghost story, I'm likely to repeat the exercise in order to provide a suitably seasonal story this year. Beyond that, I've got plenty of ideas for stories to take us well into next year, when, shockingly, we'll be celebrating ten years online. Quite what form these celebrations (if there are any) will take, I've yet to decide. Indeed, some might question whether a decade of being ignored by the mainstream is actually an achievement worth celebrating. But what the heck - from total obscurity to near anonymity in just ten years is a journey well worth celebrating in my book!

Whose is the Biggest?

Here at Sleaze Diary we like to be even handed. So, after the obvious sexism of a recent cmpetition in which we asked “Which Spice Girl is your Masturbatory Fantasy” we've decided to present something for the ladies - whose todger is biggest? As we all know, the late Errol Flynn was prodigiously endowed and sometimes used his schlonger to play golf (see last month’s issue), snooker and, on occasion, hockey. Indeed, so enormous was his old man, that whenever Flynn had an erection the rush of blood to his nether regions caused him to faint. Errol’s rigid digit was so prominent that Bette Davis once suggested that it should have a red flashing light on top as a warning to low-flying aircraft. In an on-set joke in 1938, Flynn practiced the famous sword fight in The Adventures of Robin Hood using his banging stick, whilst Basil Rathbone used his huge nose.

But how do today’s stars match up in the meat flute department? Are the rumours true? Is big screen hard man Arnold Schwarzeneger really hung like a gnat? Does he carry all those big guns just to compensate for his short-comings in the trouser snake department? On the other hand, is smooth grey-haired romeo Richard Gere’s knob so big its like a baby’s arm hanging out of the pram? What about John Travolta - beef bayonet or pork sword? Is Mel Gibson’s lethal weapon a mutton musket or merely a trouser mauser? Is Bruce Willis packing a bacon bazooka, or did Demi Moore leave him because he could only muster a snub-nosed porridge gun? And is his ramrod circumcised to match his bald head? Let’s not forget our continental cousins. What about French hunk Gerard Depardieu - trouser trout or tiddler? Does ice cool bisexual heart-throb Alain Delon resort to metric measurements because ten centimetres sounds better than four inches? Send us your opinions on who has the biggest (and smallest) whangers so we can publish the definitive guide. Even better, if you’ve got photographic proof - send it in! Remember, its all in the public interest!

Deviants Are Forever

Adapted from the novel by Ian Phlegming, this is the fourth of the popular James Bondage series, and the second starring Rump Gulley as Bondage. This episode pits the super-spy against yet another bizarre enemy of the Crown, this time European porn baron Oral Phallus (a great performance from Dutch actor Jan Zinzanbrook). The plot (such as it is) is somewhat confusing, involving the efforts of Phallus and his henchman Blojob (Harry Barse) to corner the European porn market by destroying the EU porn mountain, secretly stored at a Scottish castle. The villain is also assisted by the evil Madam Nuckle (Elsa Palm), one time sex-therapist to the entire Third Reich. For his part, Bondage is assisted by the lovely Vulva Fellatio, playing psychologist Dr Yoni Fadge.

There is, of course, the obligatory sequence where Bondage is captured and subjected to torture - which he naturally enjoys. However, this time the tables are turned, as this is part of Phallus’ bizarre plans. “Do you expect me to talk?” laughs Bondage. “No, Mr Bondage, I expect you to come!” Apparently Phallus believes that drinking Bondage’s jism will restore his manhood - lost in a terrible accident with a mangle. A tense scene follows as Bondage attempts to restrain himself whilst strapped to a rack.

As ever, the special effects - especially Phallus’ huge airship - are superb and the action sequences well executed by director Hugh Jampton (fresh from Beverly Hills Cock 3). The climactic shoot-out between Bondage and Phallus at the castle, with Phallus using his metallic dart-firing prosthetic penis, is particularly well-handled. The film contains the usual unsubtle double-entendres, the most memorable coming as Phallus’ airship collapses into the sea - “Having trouble keeping it up, Phallus?”, taunts Bondage. The presence of series regular Tom Botter as Bondage’s gay chief Rear Admiral Windward allows our hero to utter (yet again) his catch phrase “I’m doing this for the old queen and country.”

Whilst Gulley looks far more comfortable in the role than he had in his first outing The Man in the Golden Shower, but overall the film is still inferior to the next entry, Browneye. Nevertheless, many still prefer the original Bondage, Nobby Gusset, who essayed the role in Thunderbald and The Spy Who Made a Bald Man Cry. Only time will tell which is accepted by the public as the definitive Bondage.

Bad Press

The Tory party's leadership has been left reeling following the publication of photographs purportedly showing the entire shadow cabinet dressed in Nazi uniforms whilst attending bilateral talks with their new European allies, the National Purity Party of Latvia. "The bastards are all there - Cameron, Osborne, Hague, even the bloody Mayor of London, that buffoon Boris Johnson - jackbooted and sporting swastika armbands, whilst they give the Hitler salute to a parade of local SS veterans," says Bill Nardy, editor of the Daily Tits, which printed the pictures. "What further proof does the British electorate need that the Tories under Cameron are just a bunch of evil fascists?" According to Nardy, whilst in Latvia the top Tories attended a World War Two themed outdoor activity centre situated in a forest just outside Riga. "They got to re-enact the local pogroms and raze entire pro-communist villages to the ground with Tiger tanks," he asserts. "There's a whole mock concentration camp where they can conduct appalling Dr Mengele-style sexual experiments on prostitutes with shaved heads pretending to be Jewish prisoners. Apparently, if you're prepared to pay a premium, they'll even round up some local down and outs and drug addicts for you to gas!" Whilst critics have pointed out that the photos are obviously faked - Boris Johnson's face has been crudely photoshopped onto a picture of Luftwaffe chief and fat buffoon Hermann Goering, for instance - the tabloid editor remains unrepentant.

"OK, so it's an exaggeration, but it's no worse than the lies that those scumbags over at The Shite have been peddling about Gordon Brown," he claims. "It's bloody outrageous, whatever he does they put some spin on it to make out he's some kind of unpatriotic child murderer or something!" Indeed, since the Daily Tit's arch-rival declared it would no longer be supporting the Labour government, instead swinging its weight behind Cameron's Tories, it has printed a series of stories seizing on even the most trivial gaffes to try and smear the Prime Minister. "Even when he' being compassionate, sending hand-written letters of condolence to the families of servicemen killed in Afghanistan, they somehow manage to turn it around," rages Nardy, referring to The Shite's recent feature, timed to coincide with Armistice Day, in which they employ a calligrapher to analyse the Premier's handwriting in one such letter. "According to them, his 'barely literate scrawl' reveals that Gordon Brown secretly wants to piss on the Cenotaph and desecrate the graves of dead war heroes by dancing on them! It's a disgrace!" He also cites another recent article in which the Tory tabloid used a medium to contact the spirits of various military heroes, including Viscount Montgomery and the Duke of Wellington, to comment on Brown's conduct of the war in Afghanistan. "I find it very hard to believe that Lord Nelson would use the words 'one-eyed whingeing tosser' to describe anyone, let alone the Prime Minster," sighs an exasperated Nardy. However, whilst the Daily Tits' 'Cameron Nazi' story was intended as retaliation, it is in danger of back firing. "Listen, those guys they're apparently saluting might have been ex-Nazis, but at least Cameron knows to honour war veterans properly," declares Johnny Twatt, editor of The Shite. "Not like that bastard Brown - we all saw him mooning at our brave boys during the Remembrance Day parade - and given enough time we'll have the photos to prove it!"

The Real Naked Chef

Whilst cookery programmes presented by celebrity chefs are currently riding high in the TV ratings, one of Britain’s top cooks has launched a scathing attack on them. Speaking from the kitchen of his restaurant 'Hootchie Cootchie’s' in Mill Hill, Percy Lingham told us that he thought the current generation of TV chefs were 'pretentious pillocks' who have totally lost touch with real life. “They spend too much time affecting working-class accents and pretending to be ordinary geezers, when they are actually middle class ponces on a massive ego-trip, mincing around the kitchen saying ‘look how macho I am - this antique pepper mill is almost as big as my knob!’” he ranted. “That Jamie Oliver bloke is one of the worst - I mean, he calls himself the naked chef and never gets his kit off - tosser!” Lingham firmly believes that cookery should go back to basics. “Those kitchens they cook in, they’re just too clean, nothing like real kitchens - I blame the health and safety Nazis, they’ve made it all too sterile!” Lingham suspects that his outspoken criticisms have led to him being shunned by television producers.

However, many will remember his only appearance on a celebrity edition of the popular Ready, Steady, Cook, where he quickly became drunk on cooking sherry. When he ran out of seasoning, he shocked his celebrity partner, some skinny blonde bint from Holby City, by urinating in the casserole. He then proceeded to stir the soup with his John Thomas after he had mislaid his ladle. “Luckily it wasn’t too hot, or I could have suffered some nasty blistering”, he recalls. Finally, he challenged the other guest chef, manic slaphead Ainsley Harriot, to get his banging stick out and see how fast he could 'whip up a fanny batter' on hostess Fern Britten. “Everybody goes on about what a whopper he’s got in his pants - personally I reckon he just shoves a cheese grater down there to impress the ladies! I noticed that he wouldn’t get it out when I gave him the chance!” At this point Lingham was ejected from the studio by security guards.

Lingham has tried to put his cookery credo into practice at 'Hootchie Cootchie’s' - his kitchen is simple and down-to-earth, with cracked tiles and layers of grease. He eschews the use of modern disinfectants and kitchen cleaners, believing them to be environmentally harmful and “down right unnatural”. The unorthodox gourmet usually cooks in the nude, thereby avoiding any germs from being carried on his clothes. “A few people have complained about finding the odd stray pube in their lasagne but, like I tell them, its all good roughage.” There is nothing pretentious about the food Lingham prepares. “Too many of these celebrity chefs carry on as if they are creating a work of art. I’ve no time for that kind of bollocks”. Lingham is proud of the fact that his restaurant has been closed down by the Environmental Health Agency three times in the last six months - once after a mass outbreak of food poisoning. “They were puking and crapping all over the place!” he informed us. “I blame modern preservatives. That’s the first and last time I use’em.” Health Inspectors, however, believe that it may have had more to do with Lingham’s using his arse to crimp the pastry on a batch of steak and kidney pies.

Adolf and Me

Another gem from my private DVD collection - 'hilarious' Hitler 'comedy' Adolf and Me:

A frantic madcap comedy in which a Nazi war criminal’s desperate attempts to avoid detection by, amongst others, US and Israeli agents, are continually hampered by a zombified Adolf Hitler, Hermann Goering’s flatulent corpse and a deep freeze full of dead Nazis, this proved a massive hit in its native Mexico, but left the rest of the world slack-jawed with disbelief. Coming on like a jack-booted version of Arsenic and Old Lace, the film is essentially a vehicle for veteran local comic Pepe Arsole, whose performance as the notorious Nazi Dr Mengele - famed for his cruel experiments on concentration camp inmates- seems to consist entirely of double-takes and pratfalls as he tries to conceal the true nature of his exclusive Paraguyan private health clinic from visiting government health inspectors. He is joined in the cast by Juan Garbonza - once described as the Mexican Jerry Lewis, as damning an indictment of a career as you can get - who brings his flailing limbs and infantile persona to the part of Adolf Hitler. It seems that Mengele has been trying to thaw out a number of top Nazi leaders he has frozen in the cellar. However, his first attempt - the Fuhrer - has been less than successful and Adolf now staggers around Mengele’s Paraguyan clinic flailing his arms and shouting “Ein Reich, Ein Volk, Ein Fuhrer!”, before regularly falling over. He also frequently gropes young women to comic effect.

Anxious to retain his clinic’s certification, Mengele has to frantically cover up its real activities - including practising involuntary euthanasia on elderly wealthy patients and then extracting their gold teeth so as to finance his latest experiments and gassing and melting down the local Indian population to provide a supply of soap and candles for the clinic. Naturally, the whole situation is further complicated by the arrival of first CIA, then Mossad agents, seeking to bring the war criminal to justice, and Mengele is forced to try and keep them away from each other, the inspectors and the clinic’s furnaces and gas chambers. Inevitably, ‘hilarious’ scenes ensue, such as patients being smothered by orderlies just as Mengele brings the inspectors onto the ward, resulting in frantic mugging and double-takes from the mad Doctor as he hurriedly pushes them back out of the room. A comic ‘highlight’ finds one of the Mossad agents recognising a lampshade in the Doctor’s study as being his mother when he notices a familiar tattoo - he subsequently finds the rest of his family on the bookshelves binding a number of notorious Nazi texts (his fiancé is now Mein Kampf).

When one of the female inspectors starts making amourous advances toward Mengele, he passes a befrocked Hermann Goering (who has arrived unannounced seeking a hiding place from the various Nazi hunters trailing him) off as his wife. Unfortunately, Goering quickly expires from a heart attack as he attempts to distract the Israeli agents with a seductive dance routine. For no discernible reason, Goering’s corpse proceeds to break wind loudly and violently at various inappropriate moments, so as to continually embarrass Mengele. However, the farting corpse turns out merely to be a convenient plot device to bring about the film’s denouement - one of the Isaeli agents strikes a match whilst investigating the strange noises coming from the wardrobe where the body eventually ends up, blowing the clinic to bits. Only Mengele, Hitler and the US agents survive. In a sidesplitting final twist it turns out that the CIA agents have been trying to locate Mengele so as to offer him a job as a ‘torture consultant’ - a beaming Mengele is last seen heading for the US arm in arm with Adolf!

For many years believed lost (to the relief of film-lovers everywhere), this reprehensible film has now turned up on video. A great evening’s viewing if you like slapstick comedy featuring crude racist stereotypes (the Israeli agents are depicted as having hooked noses, etc., whilst one of the CIA agents is a 1930s ‘comic relief’-style Negro with rolling eyes, continually taking fright at the slightest thing), genocide, torture and murder.

A Match Made in Heaven?

Gable and Lombard, Bogart and Bacall, Sid James and Barbara Windsor - the list of celebrity couples is endless. Loved by the press, adored by the public,; there’s nothing like a celebrity romance to set the pulses racing. However, as Liz Hurley and Hugh Grant found, it can all so easily go wrong and turn into a nightmare. Whilst it took Hugh and Liz more than ten years to decide that their relationship was all wrong, some celebrity couplings are obviously a nightmare from the outset. Take sad middle-aged game show host and self-styled impressionist Les Dennis and gorgeous young blonde bint Amanda Holden. I mean, was anybody really surprised that she sought solace in the arms of Neil Morrissey rather than Russ Abbot’s one-time straight man? Its like Mel Gibson once said, there’s nothing more stomach churning than the sight of an attractive young woman being pawed by some sad old man, or words to that effect. Which brings us to Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones. Jesus! What a dirty old man he is - and I’m motivated solely by envy when I say that. So, the question we’re posing is this - what celebrity coupling would really churn your stomach?

What if rotund Radio One DJ Chris Moyles was to get it on with ginger tosser Chris Evans? Would the thought of all those wobbling buttocks and red pubes going at it hammer and tongs have you heaving up your lunch? Or perhaps the notion of Sir Jimmy Saville and the Queen grappling on the back seat of a Royal Daimler might have you chucking your cookies? Perhaps former wrestler Sir Jimmy could try some of those submission holds which involve him sitting on her face? How about sleazy Hollywood legend Jack Nicholson playing tonsil hockey with Leonardo Di Caprio - would the thought of that make your passion wilt, eh? Maybe sex-siren Sharon Stone strapping on a dildo and making like a bull-dyke with Sandra Bullock? Arch scientologist and superstar fat-boy John Travolta giving American gigolo Richard Gere one up the Gary Glitter whilst wearing a condom made from pure gerbil fur? No doubt you have your own ideas, so drop us a line and let us know which celebrity coupling you definitely wouldn’t pay good money to see an under the counter video of. We won’t be awarding any prizes for the one which makes us honk till we hurt, but if we feel like it we might publish he top ten, somewhen - maybe.

The Ignorance of the Crowd

When I first started using the web, when I was young and naive, I foolishly thought that one of the wonderful things about it was the opportunity it afforded everyone to freely express their opinions. The days of being shouted down by morons who didn't like what you were saying, and weren't prepared to even give you a fair hearing, were a thing of the past. Sadly, the opposite seems to have happened. The web has evolved into a medium whereby everyone can shout down everyone else's opinion via social networking sites, blog comments, message boards and the like. Hate campaigns can be quickly mounted and their targets bullied off of the web. It's one of the reasons I don't allow comments on stories on The Sleaze and I make it as difficult as possible to comment here. I can do without the moronic bile which, all too often, passes for opinion on the web. All of which, in a roundabout way, brings me to the point of this post. To take a recent example of this mob mentality in action, just look at the furious online reaction to the campaign by recording artists to try and curb the illegal downloading of their work. You'd think that they had been calling for the murder of every first born child in Europe, such was the strength of the reaction, rather than simply expressing an opinion that the internet mob disagreed with. Not that any of their counter 'arguments' (if you can call them that), had any merit. They seemed simply to be whingeing about how outrageous it was that these wealthy an successful pop singers wanted to stop them from getting their work for free. Lily Allen, in particular, seemed to be the primary recipient of the venom. She'd made the unforgivable mistake of setting out a coherent and perfectly reasonable defence of her position on Twitter. Always a bad move to invoke reason and logic when dealing with baying mobs.

It is the focus upon the relative wealth and success of the recording artists in this case which provides the key to the 'mob mentality'. In common with the majority of such outbreaks of public cyber-bullying, it isn't so much the opinions the targets are expressing, but the relative success (measured in wealth, in this case), of the targets. The reality is that most web users are essentially 'passive', in that they don't actually create any of the content they consume. Many of them, whilst willing to consume this content, seem to resent the fact that those who created it ultimately have ownership of it, and hate it when they exercise this ownership by expecting payment for their work. After all, how else can you explain such an extreme reaction? Why shouldn't artists expect to receive payment for something they have worked hard to create, particularly when it is their main source of income? The fact that they might already be wealthy, due to prior success in producing unique original content is irrelevant. It is a matter of principle, surely? Trying to claim that they are merely puppets of voracious, profit-hungry record companies is simply an attempt to evade the point. The record companies might, indeed, be over-pricing music so as to increase their profits, but not paying for ultimately hits the artists, who have no control over such things.

But you don't have to be a famous recording artist to feel the wrath of the crowd. I have no doubt that the kind of vitriolic comments many of us have suffered on our own sites, or the ignorant bitching about our stories on message boards, is the result of this resentment against creativity harboured by the mob. Indeed, I'm sure that such reactions are an attempt by those responsible to exercise some kind of 'creative collaboration', thereby giving them some kind of spurious 'ownership' of your content. Just like the music artists, we frequently get our content ripped-off by other sites. Unlike the recording artists, we don't just suffer a potential loss of income here (from advertising, for instance), but also a complete loss of ownership, as the story often ends up without any accreditation at all, or sometimes even accredited to someone else! Damn it, I've even stumbled across people on message boards claiming to be me! I find the idea that anyone would think that they could gain some kind of credibility by pretending to be Doc Sleaze very perplexing! But, of course, it's the creative angle again - by claiming to be me, they can claim authorship of my work and believe that this, somehow, gives them kudos in certain circles. Sad bastards!

Child's Play (Part Two)

Following his sacking by the BBC, for sexual misdemeanours whilst dressed as Mr Blobby, children's entertainer Bobby Wexler found himself forced to make a living playing bit parts in pantomimes. Still, his bizarre erotic fixations managed to threaten his career prospects. During a 1995 production of Jack and the Beanstalk in Scunthorpe, star Rod Hull caught Wexler in his dressing room, naked, using Hull’s famous emu puppet to masturbate with whilst he watched the Chuckle Brothers on a portable television. Judy Trimm, who was acting as Hull’s dresser that season, recalls that the popular children’s entertainer was furious. “He punched Bobby in the face”, she told us. “Unfortunately he was too late as Bobby had already ejaculated all over Emu’s face and neck. It was pretty disgusting - we had to put him through the wash three times to remove the stains.”

Following this debacle, Wexler realised that finding work in the entertainment would be difficult. Consequently, he obtained a false identity and references and managed to land a job with the BBC again, this time playing a Tellytubbie. As before, he quickly took to borrowing the costume for his sex games. Suzy Merkin described how he liked to play explicit porn videos on the TV in the Telly tubbie costume whilst he wore it during sex. “That was the final straw,” she says. “The health risk from that TV playing whilst he bounced up and down on me was just too great - I told him to get treatment”. A scandal erupted when it was discovered that Wexler’s tummy TV was playing Dutch porn favourite Love Socket during a broadcast episode. Once more Wexler found himself unemployed.

Possession of certain photographs involving an ITV executive and a stoat meant that Wexler quickly managed to land a new job, this time as a puppeteer on Sooty and Sweep. Virginia Futz, his girlfriend during this period, related how Wexler would bring the puppets home and wear them whilst fondling her breasts. “His piece de resistance was to get Sooty to wave his wand whilst shouting “Izzy Wizzy let’s get busy!” as his erection popped up. As he came he would squeak in the manner of Sooty rather than groaning”. Wexler managed to keep this job for over a year. However, in October 1998 he was arrested by Police for exposing himself to a group of children o n Clapham Common. He had apparently leapt out of bushes with Soo the panda on his erect penis. Following a three month custodial sentence and psychiatric counselling, Wexler started his own business as a children’s entertainer. He is currently back in Police custody following the Punch and Judy incident. Police are investigating several similar complaints.