Defeeting Terorism by Nigel Molesworth (The Curse of St Custard’s)

With apologies to Geoffrey Willans and Ronald Searle

@reelmolesworth has been keeping the flame alive much longer than I (GRAMMER). Please follow him if you read and like  this.

Molesworth Hello, gentle reeder and welcome back to st custards. Everything you wanted to kno, and a lot you didn’t, is rite hear at your fingertips.

Exclusiv news…our Head is in a rite bate. As any fule kno st custard’s hav not exactly set the thames alite when it comes to Leage Tables (viz. botom of OFSTED Ryman Leage Div 5 nine yeres running, 0 goles scored, ten points deducted for spending the skool gym referb money on BEER and CIGGIES for masters) but today he sa in a v. loud angry voice that the expetiv deleted govt. is making his life an expletiv deleted misery.

Between you and me it is v. hard to see how any Headmaster coud posibly be more miserible than the one’s we hav sufered since they all lost the Kane. “think positiv, Molesworth” they sa now “theres a gold star in it for you, noble lad! Think of the skool!” What they reely mene is “I want to kane you boy within 1 inch of yr life and i wood to, were it not for Childline (GRAMMER).” Even the skool dog skulks around with a miserible expresion as he is not alowed to bite anyone, not even fotherington-tomas who deserves it if anyone does. Chiz.

skool1 In short, life in st custards is prity much the same uter shambles it hav always been only more so and with added inspektions. The Masters are the usual shower of asorted weeds, wets and underacheevers, the skool dinners can only be described from behind a led screne, and then only with a peg on your nose, plus there is never enuff.  gillibrand, who wins every sport we can still aford to play (i.e. hopscotch and booles) always gets 1st dibs because he is “a growing lad” and “one day he will reprisent the county” chiz chiz. He is victor ludorum but noone sa that these days because Latin is even deader than usual as noone kno how to teech it. In the good old days Latin Masters were famous for remembering Horace, “I met him once at a dinner party you kno. Fasinating chap.” Now we hav some spoty oik wearing a ranebow loom wristband made by his soppy little sister and boasting about his  digeree in Populer Coitture. He woodnt recognise a dative if one danced like Salami in front of him. He cant even translate the skool motto. Q.E.D.

The word on the skool grapevine (i.e. mi best mate Peason) is that the Head recieved a misive from the Governers telling him to do something about terorism. David Cameraman, who is a bigshot VIP in parlaiment with a silver spoon and corgis, wants skools to spot terorists and jihardys early on when they first show up during lessons, e.g. History:

MASTER: Can anyone tell me anything about the American Revolution?

[Noone speak. A dried pea pings off the Masters red vained nose. Larfter all round. At the back of the class Peason high fives grabber, the skool captane and winer of the mrs joyful prize for rafia work.]

MASTER: Anyone? Molesworth? MOLESWORTH?

[I shrug like a Gaul and inspect an imaginery spek of dust on mi fingernale. The American Revolution is beneeth mi keen interlect.]

MASTER: What about you Fotherington-Thomas?

FOTHERINGTON-THOMAS: Sir! The American Revolution sowed the seeds that spawned the Great Satan, sir! The vile infidels were suckled on the breasts of jackals and one day we will wipe them from the very face of the Earth using Allah’s fiery sword! Allahu akbar, sir!

MASTER: Aha! Got you, you latent jihadi! Off to the beak with you, you vile jelly!

fotheringtonIn the reel world, of coarse, fotherington-tomas will grow up to be a master, for he is wet and weedy and he skips at the drop of a hat. Peason is already a terorist viz. the time he put molesworth 2’s head down the skool toilet which he had filled to the rim with frogs. Mi bro came away from that gibering like a gibon. He makes me ashamed we share the same jeans. In fact if I had to put anyone in the frame for future terorist it would be him. He is quite beyond the pail. gillibrand wld only be a terorist if they could garantee weakends off for football. grabber will folow his pater into investment banking which is worse than terorism anyway.

Anyway thats all the news for now. Geog. in the skool annexxe awates. Chiz chiz.

Yours ect


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Be Careful What You Wish For

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The old boy sitting next to me in our local was clearly hoping to join in our conversation. It’s not an uncommon occurrence: the banter flows freely most Saturday lunchtimes and we are, I like to think, a fun bunch on our day.

To give him his due, he did not try to force the issue: some folks engineer their way into a bar conversation in much the same way as a bulldozer might attempt to delicately penetrate a trifle.  We’re not a stand-offish crowd by any means, but a little finesse is always appreciated.  He had been dutifully restrained, but nevertheless you could sense he was dying to join in.

Having run through the usual checklist  – not an evangelist, a racist homophobe or an investment banker;  the only slight oddity was that he was drinking pints of ale with rum and coke chasers  –  we brought him into the fold, discovered his name was Jim (I’ve changed it for the purpose of this true tale) and spent a pleasant fifteen minutes or so shooting whatever breeze was wafting.

During a lull in proceedings, Jim motioned me to lean in and listen.

“You might not think it to look at me,” he said, “but I’ve been extremely lucky on The Lottery.”

I winced inwardly. This was the kind of opening gambit you might typically expect from a con artist. I envisaged a conversation that was the pub equivalent of one of those Nigerian scam e-mails. Out of courtesy, I kept these thoughts to myself and simply nodded politely and made an encouraging grunt.

“Ah, there it is!” he said “The Look! If I’ve seen it once I’ve seen it a thousand times. You don’t believe me!”

Clearly my non-verbal leakage was like an ill-maintained gutter in a thunderstorm.

“Not at all!” I stressed, attempting to repair damaged fences. “Sounds like an interesting story…”

“Well,” he said, “last year I won £800,000. But that’s not the end of it. Three weeks ago, I won another million!”

Now this was stretching a tall tale too far, but I had learned my lesson and so I began to throw in interested questions, occasionally asking for some sort of arcane detail that might normally catch out a storyteller, if only in a slight pause as they sought to fabricate new information.  All these he answered with consummate ease. At no point did he contradict himself or offer up an unlikely response.  After a while I was left with only two possible conclusions:  either Jim was an immensely accomplished liar or a genuine two-times Lottery winner.

“Anyway,” said Jim, “to cut a long story short, I’d like to offer you and everyone else in the bar a drink on me. Help me celebrate my good fortune.”

Now this was the kind of scenario that I had long imagined in my own day dreams about being a Lottery winner.  How to graciously spend my new found largesse. A pleasant enough reverie when it is unlikely ever to happen to you, but a genuine issue once it has.

“There’s that look again!” he said. “Why not let me buy you all a drink?”

My uncharitable mind had flashed back twenty years to another rich old man who, once a week on Sunday lunchtime, would routinely pop his head around the door of our regular haunt in Wembley to inform the amused topers that he had enough money to buy the pub, and everyone in it, thrice over. Old Frank had been variously considered anything from an ageing pederast to an eccentric millionaire in the popular imagination of the time. What had been beyond doubt was that he was both unloved and unwanted by the regulars. Whether his self-evident bitterness towards the clientele was the cause or the result of this state of affairs I never did find out.

“I’d be happy to accept a drink from you,” I said, making the instant proviso in my head that I’d buy him one back as contingent to that acceptance. I didn’t say it aloud, though, as I had a feeling it would have been interpreted as a failure to grasp the true spirit of his gesture. Which, upon reflection, it probably was.

Jim nodded and extracted a couple of twenties from his wallet. “A drink for my friend and his wife,” he told the barmaid, “and once right round the bar!”

This got the attention of my drinking buddies, as you might imagine, and I helped out with an explanation: “Jim has been extremely lucky on The Lottery and he’d like to buy us all a drink.”

My friends’ faces briefly registered The Look. I wondered if Jim had ever encountered anyone, aside from a Lottery representative, who hadn’t given him The Look. It struck me that everyone’s first thought was likely to be the cynical one: “Where’s the catch?”

As the drinks were poured Jim was now regaling the rest of the bar with his tale.

“The thing is,” he was saying, “if it had happened to me twenty years ago that would have been great, but I’m 76, my wife is dead: what am I supposed to do with all that money?  I can’t spend it fast enough.”

“Buy a nice house,” someone suggested.

Jim snorted. “What would I want with a bigger house? Or a different place? I rattle around in the one I’ve got, and, trust me, I’ve lost more friends since I won the money than I care to count. It’s bloody hard making new ones. You can’t even buy people a drink in a pub without coming across as some sort of sad old git trying to buy a conversation. Plus I don’t have anyone to leave the money to when I go, and I’m buggered if I’m going to leave any for the bloody Government. Have you tried spending thousands of pounds a day? You’d think it would be a breeze, but it’s bloody difficult! Fast as I spend it, the interest replaces it and more!”

The faces around the bar had now polarised on a spectrum between outright disbelief and utter bemusement. For my own part, having taken the man’s pint, I felt a strange compulsion to believe him, mixed with the sudden urge to say “Tell you what, if you don’t want it, give it to me!”

I was about to say that very thing, in jest, when it occurred to me that he might very well take me at my word. It had been a strange enough encounter already and there was still plenty of time for it to get weirder. Uncommonly, I bit my tongue.

“Why have you lost so many friends?” I asked.

“I’ve always been a pub goer,” he answered, “I’ve spent a lot of time with people who’ve happily bought me beers in the past, when I didn’t have the money sometimes. So one of the first things I did when I got my win was visit all my old haunts and try to give something back. You’d think it would be easy, but people didn’t believe me. A bit like you don’t. Some of them refused. I even got barred from a couple of my favourite places.”

“Barred? Why?”

“Because when you sit on a barstool and get pissed, you eventually fall off.”

I searched his face for signs that he was joking, but he was deadly serious.

“That’s right,” he said. “My life is one long session down the pub, only I don’t ever run out of money. I don’t have anything to go home for, so I stay and I drink and I get drunk.  Eventually I get taken home, or left to sleep it off overnight.  The way I’m going I can’t see myself reaching old age. A lot of my old friends don’t speak to me anymore. You might not want to speak to me tomorrow, after we’ve had a few more.  That’s my life.  I’m a lucky bastard, right?”

There was infinite sadness in his voice as he stared down the tunnel of his long suicide mission.

Thoughts of counselling Jim whirled briefly through my head, then I remembered an old saying: “You saved my life. Now you owe me!”

“My round,” I said, in true co-dependent fashion.

We left the pub shortly after. Jim, needless to say, did not do so until much later. I have gone over that conversation a hundred times in my head. It was not the money that trapped Jim, even assuming there was really a stash in his bank account; after all, he could give it all away in an instant. No, Jim was trapped by his needs. It was just beyond the bounds of a mere Lottery win to satisfy them.

I suppose that is the human condition.

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Have I Got News For You

The current spell of cold weather seems to have put the media into an all-round tizzy. This morning I watched Good Morning Britain to see how they would report it. What follows is, I’d like to feel, the essence of what they did. Names have been changed to avoid litigation.


“Welcome back to the Good Morning Britain studio. My name’s Amanda Periwinkle…”

“…and I’m Cornelia Scruffgrunter…”

“Later we’ll be meeting Britain’s most talented dog, Buster, who has memorised the complete works of William Wordsworth in just over a week…”

“…and at seven-forty Doctor Bob will be telling us why it’s most unwise to eat unpasteurised horse manure…”

“…but, first, our main story: you’ve have been tweeting literally in your thousands to say how alarmed you are by the strange weather.  Well, we’ve been investigating, and apparently the strange weather is all due to a disturbance in our weather patterns that has literally divided the country in half. In the east it has been snowing. In the west it has been very cold. Along the dividing line, if you stand still long enough, one half of you will turn into a snowman, the other half will freeze like a Heston Blumenthal ready-meal in liquid nitrogen.”

“That’s right, Amanda! So what’s it like to be literally experiencing different weather based purely on your postcode? We sent our intrepid reporters out into the Siberian conditions to find out. Bill Cundlebucket is in Yorkshire and Amelia Frogglicker is in Lancashire.  To you first, Bill. What’s it like in Yorkshire? I can imagine that under your padded overcoat you‘ve probably wrapped some very special thermal pants around your enormous lunchbox!”

“Hahaha, Cornelia. That’s for me to know and you to speculate upon. I will say, however, that the Cundlebucket ballsack is, for the moment, very much out of harm’s way.”

“Good news, Bill! So, Yorkshire: we’re hearing in the studio that alarming quantities of white snow have literally fallen from the sky during the hours of darkness. Can you confirm that?”

“I can indeed, Cornelia. You can see behind me the pretty Yorkshire village of Manyamicklemakesamucklethwaite. Yesterday evening when the villagers went to bed those houses were literally free of snow. Then, in the early hours, an unimaginable number of what can only be described as “white snowflakes ” started to drift down from the heavens.  As you can see many of them have landed atop buildings and trees. Those that didn’t have fallen onto roads, paths and gardens.”

“Hi, Bill, it’s Amanda…”

“Hi, Amanda!”

“Bill, you say the number of these snowflakes is “unimaginable”. Is it possible to give our viewers at home a better estimate?”

“Well, Amanda, we’ve spoken to local experts, but it’s clear that the difficult task of counting the snowflakes has not yet begun. It may be literally days before a taskforce can be assembled. A local councillor told us that it might not even be possible to make a start until the snow has cleared.”

“I see. How are the locals bearing up, Bill? I see you have a couple of brave souls with you there.”

“I have indeed, Amanda. With me out here, a long way from her cosy cottage fireside, is Doris Fishstrangler and her husband, Eric. To you first, Doris: what do you make of all this?”

“It’s nobbut a sprinkle! Stop faffing about t’ village wi’ this bunch o’mitherin’ twerps and get back where you came from! Honestly, you’re neither use nor ornament!”

“As you can see, they’re putting a pretty brave face on it, Amanda. Back to you in the studio.”

“Thanks, Bill. In a moment we will go to Amelia in Lancashire, but first let’s get an insight into the science behind this phenomenon from our very own Weathergirl, Sandra. Good morning, Sandra. Great to see you’ve recovered from yesterday’s donkey incident.”

“Good morning, Amanda. Yes, I’m fine thanks, although the donkey did have to be put down.”

“A sad day for Blackpool’s paragliding community.”


“So what can you tell us about this strange spell of weather, Sandra ?”

“Well, it’s all due to a kink in the jet stream that is dragging cold air across from Siberia. I only read about it this morning, but I was lucky enough to be able to talk earlier with a man who really knows his onions when it comes to science. He’s written a best-selling book, he’s the current Poet Laureate and he was the inspiration for Oscar-nominated actor Eddie Redmayne’s performance as Professor Stephen Hawking in the film “The Theory of Everything”. Here’s a chat I filmed earlier.”

“So, Professor Hawking, thanks so much for agreeing to this interview. What our viewers are dying to know is what, ultimately, lies behind the curious weather we’ve been experiencing recently? Where did it all begin?”

“Thank you, Sandra. That is a very interesting question…”

“What’s wrong with your voice?”

“That is because the computer is speaking for me.”

“Why does it sound like that? It’s a bit unsettling.”

“I didn’t want to sound like the bloke from the GPS.”

“I see. Can you change it at all?  Because , frankly, it’s a little bit scary.”

“No. Sorry.”

“Oh right. Well thanks for your time, Professor…”

“Don’t you want to know the answer to your question?”

“I have to run. No time, sorry!”

“I promise not to mention black holes…”

“Sorry. Must dash!”

“Well, Sandra, it must have been an honour to meet Stephen Hawking.”

“It was, Cornelia. A very, very wise man.”

“Thanks, Sandra. Well, to those of you sitting at home and worrying that the weather may literally be on your doorsteps, Sandra will be back with the weather details in just a while, and we’ll also be heading to Lancashire shortly to see if they have managed to revive Amelia Frogglicker who was struck down not ten minutes ago by hypothermia.”

“Meanwhile, here’s the local headlines where you are…”

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Star Wars


The atrocity was carried out in full view of the world's media

The atrocity was carried out in full view of the world’s media

Tensions between France and the United States are running at an all time high after President Obama sent John Kerry and James Taylor to smooth over diplomatic relations last week. The uninvited rendition of “You’ve Got a Friend” sent shockwaves through an already-nervous French population. Said one Parisian shopkeeper, who asked to remain anonymous, for fear that he might be made to listen to it again: “My ears are still bleeding. It was an unprovoked hostile act with no warning given at all. I can’t believe our security forces didn’t pick up on this plan earlier.” President Hollande declared a state of heightened security, and it is believed he has readied a plane containing Charles Aznavour and, with the backing of most of the EU, is considering sending it to Washington unless immediate steps are taken by the US to atone for its gross violation of the Geneva Convention.

Charles Aznavour bids himself adieu before being loaded onto the plane this morning

Charles Aznavour bids himself adieu before being loaded onto the plane this morning

As the world hovers on the brink of a third world war, President Obama took the news of Aznavour’s deployment very seriously: “It is an act of naked aggression,” he told the Senate. “I want the world to know that we are ready, willing and able to deploy Bob Dylan unless France and the rest of Europe step back from the abyss. Moreover we have placed Cher and Willie Nelson on high alert.” In the UK, David Cameron told an emergency meeting of COBRA that Britain should not shrink from using its own Weapons of Musical Destruction if war between Europe and the US became a reality. “I’ve said before, there is no point having James Blunt if you’re not prepared to use him. As a last resort we would even consider sending Sir Cliff Richard or Tom Jones. That’s how serious we are. As to which side we’ll take…that’s a toughie, but the Americans helped us to defuse Cher Lloyd during a critical incident in Basingstoke two years ago. If not for their assistance, whole parts of the South might now be uninhabitable. You don’t forget friends like that. On the other hand we have to consider our position vis a vis the Eurovision Song Contest. We need our voice to be heard at the table and we need EU votes if Russia isn’t going to make us look stupid when we put Sir Paul McCartney into this year’s finals.”

July 2013. US experts place Cher Lloyd in a soundproof containment suit.

Basingstoke, July 2013: US experts place Cher Lloyd in a soundproof containment suit.

Russia itself was keeping very quiet over the recent events. President Putin was said to be secretly pleased at the diplomatic row but, as someone who has, himself, sung ‘Blueberry Hill’ on live TV, he may realise his own position in this type of issue is not entirely blameless.  He may be content to stay on the side lines for now.

A UN spokesman said it was keeping “a watching brief” and was prepared to use sanctions if the two sides did not immediately hold peace talks. As usual, this is considered to be unlikely to make any difference whatsoever.

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A Conversation With God


“Well,” I say, somewhat hesitantly. “This is awkward.”

God raises an enquiring eyebrow: “How so?”

“Well, what with me being an atheist and all…”

God throws up a self-deprecatory hand.

“Oh that!” He says. “Think nothing of it. Water off a duck’s back.”

“Really? Only I got the impression it was rather important to You.”

“If you don’t mind Me saying so, it seems more important to you.”

I ponder this for a while. “Well, it’s just that I did, once, believe in You. Went to church. Sang in the choir. Every Sunday and Holy Day. Religiously, You might say.”

God chuckles. He clearly sees what I did there.

“And did you enjoy it?” He asks.

“For a while. Especially at Christmas. Then I started having doubts. Those turned into big doubts. And, well, there You go.”

God nods understandingly. “I see your difficulty. Might I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“Are you going to capitalize My pronouns throughout this entire piece?”

“I wasn’t sure whether I should, but I thought it best.”

“Why’s that?”

“I didn’t want to offend anyone. You know. Anyone who reads this in my blog.”

“You think people read your blog?”


“Just messing with you. About three at the last count, right? Ha, ha! So, if I’ve understood you correctly, you feel a failure to capitalize My pronouns would possibly give offence to some people?”

“People can be touchy.”

“They can indeed.”

“And — I’m going to say it — it’s all Your fault!”

“My fault?”

“Well yes. If You didn’t exist — and I’m not saying You do — people wouldn’t be so damned touchy about this and that.”

“This and that?”

“Like pork. And prawns. And drawing pictures of The Prophet.”

“And how exactly is this My fault?”

“People do Your bidding. Only last week some people doing Your bidding killed a few people who were mocking them for doing Your bidding. Plus a few others who happened to be in the way.”

God subjects me to a long, contemplative stare. “I can’t help thinking you’ve got this all the wrong way round,” He says. “But first things first. You doubt My existence?”

I nod.

“Well let Me set you straight about that. I do exist.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Well let Me put it another way. Does Justice exist? And Honour? Dignity?”

“Of course.”

“You never doubted it?”

“Not for a moment.”

“Well there you go.”

“There I go what?”

“If Justice, Honour and Dignity exist, how can I not?”

“But those are just abstract nouns. Labels we give to something intangible so we can talk about it among ourselves and make sense of things.”

“Exactly so.”

“So You’re saying You are an abstract noun?”


“But people think You are real! That You made us! That we should do Your bidding!”

“I can’t be held responsible for what people think. They don’t do My bidding. On the contrary: I do theirs. They created Me in their image.”

He sees the look on my face. “I know,” He says. “Ironic, isn’t it? Basically I’m a WYSIWYWTS.”

“A woozywoots?”

“What You See Is What You Want To See: You want a Smitey God, I’m Smitey; you want a Loving God, I’m Loving; you want an Intolerant Sourpuss Who Insists Women Shouldn’t Get Educated Above Their Lowly Station, hey, I’m your guy! As a matter of fact, that’s exactly why I’m a guy. I play the part you give Me. I am your mouthpiece. I am the justification you seek for whatever it is you want to do in My Name. Am I making Myself clear?”

“You are. Very clear. I think I get it now.”

“You’re welcome. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Any chance You could pass that message on to the people who keep killing each other?”

“Don’t you mean ‘Any chance that the people who keep killing each other could work that out for themselves?’ ?”

I nod glumly.

“Not a snowflake’s chance in Hell. For them I don’t do that kind of message.”



“Well. Nice talking to You.”

“You weren’t.”

Right. Of course.

I’m talking to myself.

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Fragile 2


Watching the events in France these past few days made me remember the Japanese Tsunami and the blog I wrote at the time:

It isn’t that the Islamic terrorists caused anywhere near the amount of carnage of which Mother Nature is capable. On the contrary: compared to the tsunami, their legacy was, statistically-speaking, tame. In terms of media attention, however, their targets were selected for impact and had the desired effect.

What’s common to both events, though, is that they have the potential to focus the collective mind on the utter futility of killing each other when the randomness of the Universe already has you firmly in its sights. We exist, in the entropic scheme of things,  by dint of fortune: killing each other over abstract religious differences  is a wee bit like survivors of a shipwreck shooting holes in their own lifeboat because they couldn’t agree on the correct colour for its rubber  hull.

Seeking a bright side, it is this: four satirical cartoonists died ensuring that satirical cartooning will forever become an even more prickly thorn in the side of those intolerant idiots who think that you can kill critical thinking if you kill some of the critical thinkers. Like a hydra, the cutting off of one head will serve only to spawn many others. Until this week, the last time I drew a cartoon was in the Seventies. Yesterday I rediscovered the urge, thanks to the atrocities in Paris. I’m sure I’m not the only one.

Je suis Charlie. And so are most of the rest of us.

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Erdogan’s Tales of Wonder!


So it is a well known fact that Muslims discovered the Americas.

Only a blind fool would deny this, although there are many, many blind fools in the so-called First World countries, may the scales one day fall from their unseeing eyes!

The truth is incontrovertible. Did Columbus himself not write in his journal, Standing On The Shoulders of Giants, that he visited, in Cuba, a Muslim bazaar and purchased a large number of cigars and a fez from a man named Abdul? Quod erat demonstrandum, as the old Turkish phrase has it (stolen from us by the scurrilous Greeks and passed on to the Romans. Another example of their brazen effrontery, damn their eyes, for they are the sons of swine!).

Every day the West forgets the lessons handed down to them by their Muslim torch bearers. For example, was it not John Yogi Baird who showed how moving pictures might be beamed through the divine ether so that we all might marvel at Allah’s grace? A gift to the world that was greedily appropriated by the dark forces of the West; a gift turned over to paeans of wickedness extolling heathen dogs who lie with other heathen dogs of similar gender and sing like wailing mongrels rather than the devout scholars they profess to be! Or Glee as I believe it is known among the Godless hordes.

Needless to say, it is an unassailable fact that the first men on the Moon were Muslims who built, at the behest of the Great Prophet, a ship of gold towed by twenty thousand chickens, which admirable birds, sacrificed and chargrilled, later sustained the virtuous scholars who manned the ship. Centuries later the absurd Americans attempted the same feat and never stopped to ask why their mission was called Apollo. The ignorant fools!

My friends I could tell you more tales. Tales of greatness and wonder. Tales that would burn a thousand lifetimes in the minds of men! But for now, please excuse me: I have a country to ruin.

Zihinleri serbest kalması, zorbalık Gerçeğin!

President Recep Tayyip Erdogan

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