Monday, 29 October 2012

The Passion of the Creased

This face will provide enough cash
to pay for Dave's botox injections or
a week's worth of doggy treats for Nick
Eton fat-head Prime Imposter David Cameron and his stupid, ugly girlfriend, Nick Clegg have come up with another fucking despicable idea. What a pair of shits.

The new wrinkle tax was pushed through parliament by that waste of lily-white manicured skin Cameron while some grey men in expensive suits slept off lunch.

The initiative, which aims to charge people for ageing, is a new and exciting way of ensuring old people die leaving plenty of debt for their already poor families, thereby maintaining the enormous gap between the old and impoverished and the overfed aristocracy.

Nick Clegg has attempted to appease angry local old people on his visit to Truro when he reassured the crowd of angry, starving ancients that they would not have to pay the new tax as long as they remained stone cold, shut up and ultimately die as quietly as possible.

“We understand what the old Cornish ball-bags are saying”, said the lady-boy who sold his soul to satan for the price of a fisting from a toffee-nosed twit, “we have a lot in common with the unwashed commoners and pongy bumpkins of Cornwall, in that we are all inbred and not very bright. The only difference is that we were born incredibly rich so we run the country and do what we fucking want. But I can assure the worthless pensioners of Cornwall that as long as they remain in their tawdry homes without the heating on, which they can't afford anyway thanks to my over-privileged boyfriend's worthless government, they'll soon die of hypothermia and this tax will not affect them any more.”

Later Clegg petrol-bombed a psychiatric home in Redruth, then visited Rick Stein's Death Star in Padstow where they tortured lurchers and laughed at youth unemployment before cracking open a bottle of peasant tears and performing a naked ceremony in which they urged the great cosmic entity Cthulhu to spit poisonous muck all over Jethro.

Sunday, 9 October 2011


Rick Stein today emerged from plidical exile, meeting with a fierce storm of indifference from pissed up members of the public.

The slebrudy had been in hiding since his attempted forced takeover of the Redruth branch of The Salvation Army. Aided by a left-wing, quasi-political organised crime syndicate run by delinquent badgers from deprived areas of St Day, he had stormed the Salvation Army building in Redruth armed with dog-shit on sticks and a super-soaker full of cat-piss.

The botched takeover ended in a pleece chase, involving two bikes and a fat bloke on a scooter, despite pleece putting their hands up and saying “ey!”, Stein escaped through a network of badger sets. He is thought to have been hiding in a wheelie-bin in Liskeard for the past year.

The slebrudy megalomaniac dish-washer had come under some criticism at the time from some of Falmouth’s boredest residents, after he kicked a St. John’s amblince man in the balls during a book signing in Trago Mills. This had followed his abduction of popular alien comedian, Jethro, the public raping of a Cornish chuff and dropping a logger in a stupid woman’s fish tank.

Stein is currently wanted by pleece in 20 towns and villages for not bein’ from round 'ere. Pleece are looking for Stein on telly but they int got Sky and kint find the remote.

Friday, 30 September 2011


Intrepid reporter and popular Kerrier District News anchor, Scrumptious Fandango, pulled off a daring escape after more than a year in captivity deep in a vast, haunted tropical jungle full of crisp packets and dog shit.

Tiddy Woods, or as it is known by bliddy emmets, Tehidy Country Park, was the scene of Fandango's kidnap early in 2010 by a little-known, gravy-stained, seagull cult near the north coast.

Fandango was taken as he walked his pet mongrel, Barry, who has since had stints on reality telly shows Big Cousin and Fighting in the Dark before eventually being pasted all over Chiverton Cross roundabout by a pissed bastard doing a ton in a massive pick-up full of horse-shit.

The ransom for Fandango was set at ten thousand sausage rolls and a lorryload of chips. But unfortunately the pleece didn't give a fuck as they were busy pulling over fifteen year-olds who were out past ten and saying “where you goin'?”.

A year passed.

That very same vast, haunted tropical jungle full of crisp packets and dog shit was the scene of Fandango's daring escape as he fled his viscous captors while they were distracted by half a pasty.

As Fandango fled through the forest, dodging the great white sharks, the imported black widows and the venomous Eastern European Brazilian Muslim banana spiders taking our jobs and refusing to learn Cornish, he heroically dodged bullets, left hooks, funny shaped, foreign knives and halal knees.

Following several days hiding in a bucket just outside Spar, he was rescued by a massive, heavily bearded woman with a barrow full of trousers. Without a second thought for his own safety, Fandango went straight to his office and wrote the tale of his ordeal, which can be read in full on the inside of the bog door in the Waggoners.

Give it half an hour though...

Sunday, 18 July 2010


The annual charity sports day on Carn Brea went ahead last weekend despite pleece saying its wrong cos bastards are keeping on dying.

The event began in its usual style with everyone in the hundred metres sprint dying slowly of multiple injuries after running off a massive rock.

The rabbit throw was won by a big bastard from St. Day, who sadly later succumbed to alcohol poisoning. The rabbit survived, however, to become mayor of Stithians, before being assassinated by a pipe-smoking lurcher in a pair of wellies.

First prize in the boy chase was won by the farmers, who ran down local dinner-stained cretins and shot them in the faces. They was awarded a shit load of bacon.

Camborne’s paralympic spelling team narrowly lost against a pub dog team from Lanner. A German shepherd called Nigel managed to spell “Ass war” more accurately after everyone in Tuckingmill had a go. He got bonus points for being pissed and biting someone’s ass out.

Gold in the wrong jump was thrown at a fat, scabby woman from pool who showed everyone her beef curtains before sicking on someone's baby.

Records were smashed in the pass the parcel competition by a fat-handed bastard called Merrick who dint know where he was. The parcel was full of records. First prize was an all expenses paid weekend in hospital.

Trouble got started at the wheel-barrow race when an oily bloke with a really hairy nose was found to have used a real wheel barrow, despite insisting it had a minge.

Ketamine wrestling ended in a draw again. Pleece was called to wake up four people and a ferret called Bryan.

The football went wrong cos of too many stones.

The event was to raise money for no shoes.

Thursday, 3 June 2010


A new craze has crossed the Tamar along with some foreign bastards, despite pleece and angry locals challenging bastard emmets to everything from riddle solving to goat fighting.

Flamencer is a gay dance done by dirty Spaniards who impt from round ere.

Angry locals was outraged yesterday after discovering that the dirty Spanish flamencers have mixed their silky gayness with good old Cornish dog-shit and bullying in the home. Olay!

Thousands of impressionable wife-beaters have inadvertently become hybrid Cornish flamencers, practising flamencer in the home.

In the Cornish version, dirty Spanish hand-clapping was replaced with cheeky-wife and impt-from-round-here slapping, and the traditional dirty Spanish foot-stamp was substituted by a swift kick to a lurcher’s balls. Followed by an oily, beered up bastard shouting “Olay!” Then repeating.

Pleece down Redruth said “They fucked our pleece disco up. Bastard flamencers. Olay!!”

Tuesday, 11 May 2010


Local Government blokes done a poll in Falmouth what showed angry locals want the right to smack people they don’t recognise. The poll also showed 30% of angry locals think it is already legal to “scat down” anyone who “impt from round here”.

Speaking on behalf of the Cornish People’s Get Up Yer Own End Plidical Party, a mad bastard with a massive eye brow and tiny ears said “Bleeeaaddy eastern-arabian polistanis goin’ round with their stupid ‘ats, they dunt even speak inglush roight. Dick’eeeeeeeeeeds. Kent they ride their mopeds back to bastering Pakfranesia? Wenkers”

Local takeaway customers was also mad; “See that Rastafarian there? The dick still ain’t done my chicken chow mein, I bin ‘ere 10 minutes. I kent ‘ang round ‘ere all day, I got dogs to kick”

Emotions was running high down the job centre, one local shell-suit wearer was fed up of being served kebabs by brown people who are incessantly polite despite the torrents of abuse they received, “I aren't stoopud, they're tryna make us look bad by workun' 'ard and not being mouthy, two-bob, dog-shit pains in the ass. Bleddy pleece wunt let me smack no one neever”

Foreigners were unavailable for comment as they were all at work.

Tuesday, 27 April 2010


Pleece was today warning angry locals to stay in their homes or sheds as numbers of feral mechanic attacks are on the rise.

Hundreds of oily, toothless dim-wits are on the loose in the Camborne - Pool - Illogan - Redruth area. Clues to their presence are oily piss puddles, finger prints and odd bits of socket sets accompanied by loud swearing and, more often than not, a complete twat sat in a knackered Mark 2 Escort with no wheels or bonnet, pointlessly revving the engine over and over again and smoking rollies.

The latest spate of attacks have ranged from a child’s brand new bike being snatched from him by a scrawny idiot in a boiler suit with one ear muttering something about fan belts and returned with flat tyres and no saddle, to a bastard emmet’s Mercedes being turned into a fucked Ford Pop on bricks.

These “anti-mechanics”, as they are referred to in the writings of Nostradamus, can reputedly make metal rust with the slightest touch, secrete engine oil from their skin and have a habit of removing and eating the wheels of a car and replacing them with breeze-blocks.

Pleece will try to “kill two birds with one stone” by setting feral dogs on idiot mechanics, in the hope that they will fight to the death, thus solving Cornwall’s ancient dog-shit problem and freeing up pleece time for pulling over kids at dusk for giving backies and “not ‘avin’ no lights”.

The plan is expected to not work in May.