Blog Name: Living On The Box

So I swore by Almighty Allah that I'd never flee my beloved homeland. So sue me.

This place may not be as flash as Osama's pad, but it's definitely a step up from Saddam's hole in the bleedin' ground. Let's see - shit food, no internet, TV under strict outside control, everything you do monitored 24/7 and an unwavering desire to kill everyone in the immediate vicinity. It's just like home, sigh.

Best of all, of course, is the fact that no Western Imperialist Capitalist Pig-Dog Infidel Unbelievers will ever find me here. Unless they're channel-hopping, but even then they'll probably just think Jackie Stallone has forgotten to go home.

Talking of plastic surgery gone wrong, what is it with Slim Boy Fat's belly? I'd like to slice it open to feed my dogs, but I fear it's all polystyrene inside. Even Kerry Katona finds him less attractive than the gypsy road-mender.

I thought I might find some peace and quiet here to plot my triumphant return, but there's this perpetual whining, screeching noise pervading the whole camp. I thought at first it was those infernal NATO missiles, but then it turned out to be the two-bodied monster from Ireland. That thing genuinely scares me. If I cut off one of its heads, I'm pretty sure another two will grow in its place.

Thanks be to Allah this blog's anonymous; I'd hate to be caught perving over Sally Bercow in the shower.

What's that? Oh. Both votes to evict Jedward please. Thank you, Big Brother.

Not Wading But Drowning

This seems as good a place as any to draft that memo to my army of minions. Let's see...

You ungrateful bunch of treacherous shits,
Hmmm...too long.

You bastards,
Too honest.

Dear All,

When I wrote to you last week updating you on a number of business issues I did not anticipate having to do so again so soon, but some cunt has gone and let the cat out of the bag. I admit it's my own fault; I should have paid Inspector Knacker more handsomely to keep a lid on the whole hideous affair. I can only say thank fuck I've still got the dirt on Cameron safely locked up in Rupert's HQ.

And the dirt on Rupert locked up at no. 10. Hee!

We were all appalled and shocked when we heard about these allegations yesterday. And if I find out that any of you has grassed me up, just bear in mind that I can very quickly make your life a living hell. It would be no trouble at all to have the lot of you branded a bunch of paedophiles and produce the evidence to prove it. Witness statements, photos, it's amazing what you can "discover" when you're in charge of the biggest media machine on the planet.

Our first priority must be to shred establish the full facts behind these claims. I have written to Mr and Mrs Dowler this morning to assure them News International will vigorously pursue the truth and that they will be the first to be informed of the outcome of our investigation. In unmarked notes in a large brown envelope.

Our lawyers have also written to their solicitor Mark Lewis to ask him to show us any of the evidence he has so we can swiftly take the appropriate action, i.e. raid his offices, wipe his hard drives etc.

The process of discovery is complicated. First we hire a run-of-the-mill detective to find the ex-directory numbers of victims' families, then we use a professional to get the voicemail codes of their contacts. After transcribing their messages, we delete them to make room for more juicy material to fill our rag, then we pretend we got those statements during personal interviews with the bereaved. The MPS is the last to know, if we even feel like telling them.

I hope that you all realise that although I personally ordered my hacks to get this material at any cost, it is inconceivable that I should shoulder any responsibility whatsoever.

I am aware of the speculation about my position. Therefore it is important you all know that as chief executive, if I go down, I'm taking you lot with me.

We will face up to the mistakes and wrongdoing of the past and we will do our utmost to see that the Justice Secretary is done for and those culpable will never be punished.

Thank God this blog's anonymous, I could swing for this.

Blog Name: Goody Gumdrops

I'm baaaaaaaack! Yep, it's me, the Bermondsey bombsite, minger, racialist and now Seint Facking Jade of Essex, innit?

Wannit lavverley the way mah boyz left some 'and-drorn cards on mah grave for Mavver's Day? Pity they was too facking stingey to buy me propah wans out of Birfdays but - you wot? Birfdays 'as gorn bast? Well, I nevvah! Probly cos of orl them Muslins taking over the cahntry and bannin' Christmas an' Eastah. No wonder pore little baby Jesus is always cryin' ap 'ere.

'Ere, that Shipla Poppadom done orl rite for 'erself, innit? Got 'er own tv show now an' everyfink. That was orl ap to me, of courst, raisin' wareness on Slebrity Big Bravva. She were livin' in a facking slum before I cam along an' dragged 'er outta the gatta. She cam to fank me in 'orspital, bless 'er little cotton socks. Wiv an 'ammer an' a pillow. Or was that Jack?

Talkin' of who, where is that lazy, womanising barsteward? He oughta be still mournin' me, according to that contract Max Clifford drew ap. Were does 'e fink the manny's coming from? Heat Magazine's got anuvva spread cammin' ap next week on me propah anniversery an' I wannit too look nice an' seintly, not cavvered in gossip abaht who he's been shaggin'.

Fank Gawd this blog's anomymus, Jordan would 'ave a fit if she knew where she's going this summer! Let's jast say it's hot, but it's not Europe! At least I fink it's not, I nevvah was good at geometry.

Blog Name: Chandelier Smith (Aged 9 3/4)

This is my blog wot i am riting on the skool compooter wen teecher is not looking to see wot i am doing, she is a nozy cow her name is mrs nicholls we call her mrs nickers and wayne ses she dont ware any nickers and i sed wy not and he sed her bum is too big for nickers cos she is so fat.

i wont a barbie for xmas with the parti set, it is awsum i seen it on telly on the disney chanel. my dad hates disney chanel he only woches sports chanel, my mum hates sports chanel she only woches shoping chanel she spend a milloin pownds on joowellry and then ses dont tell daddy he will do his flamign nut.

i hate my bruther he is called beckam after sum stuopid fotball man, he is such a looser he just plaes on his xbox and piks his noze, his bedrom is very messe and he has stuopid hair wot stiks up, i rote a letta to santa arsking for becham to be taeken away by fairis and imprisnd in a big dunjen wot is all dark with nuthign but worms to ete, that wuld show huim.

i also arsked santa for a strech limo they are awsum i seen them on telly on the disney chanel orll the stars hav them they have servints as wel i so wont a servint to do orll mi homwurk i am exorstid with mi homwurk becos mrs nickers is such a mean cow i wuld like to lok her up with beckham they can get hungri and ete eech uther.

uncle miky is cumming for xmas lunch he is funne he can berp and sing at the saem time, mum ses he is disgustin he dusnt hav a job and is a laze git and a spunger tho i dont no wot a spunger is no wun will tel me.

i bort a jigsaw for mi dad for xmas from the skool jumbl sael, it onli hav wun peece mising. i bort a teddy for mum from the jumbl sael, it hav its ears mising but she can maek new wuns i think. well i ort to stop now it is hom time and no wun must no i dun this so ssssssshhhhhh alrite and lets keep it anonimus.

Blog Name: Nick Clegg's Xmas Message

As leader of the Liberal Democrat Party, I wish to issue a simple message to all of you out there.

You know, people often ask me, "Why is our great country so divided? Why do we have so many out of work, so many who simply don't want to work? Why do we have broken roads and dilapidated schools? Why are our MPs allowed to get away with stealing tax payer's money? Why do we pay so much for fuel and energy supplies? Why do we no longer have any industry of our own but instead rely on foreigners to run the few production lines still in the country? Why do we allow arrogant and selfish bankers to push the economy to the brink of disaster, and then stand back and allow them to pay themselves huge bonuses out of public funds? Why are our soldiers fighting and dying for reasons no one can properly explain in a country that no one really cares a damn about?"

And when I am asked these things I, like every other politician in Westminster, shrug my shoulders and say "Sorry mate, not a fucking clue."

Merry Christmas one and all.

The Man In Kabul Talks Futbol

It seems that just about everyone with a blog these days is talking about the game and I feel that it is an important enough matter that I should take some time out from my meeting with the US Secretary Of State to do the same.

I want to express the deepest sympathies of the Afghan people and assure the Irish that we did not bribe Thierry Henry to handle the ball in the box. I know that opinion around the world is that we are the second most corrupt nation on earth, and we take great offense on this matter because we believe that the Somalis' are mere amateurs compared to us, but I can assure the people of Ireland that we were hoping for an Irish win. We see many similarities in our countries. The Afghan people suffered the underdog tag for long enough to recognise one of our own. We had the Russians to contend with, then the Taliban, and now we can't seem to get those meddling Americans to stay out of our affairs. We know all about Ireland's struggle with the UK and therefore we would never dream of interfering in the game against France and Ireland in a negative manner for the Irish. And just to be certain I put my best men on it and there has been no record of Mr Thierry Henry ever been seen in the bazaars of Kabul.

Personally, like in my election with Dr Abdullah Abdullah (what a name eh, how he ever thought he could become Afghan President when his parents blessed him with so much imagination), I am all for a replay. I really think that in fairness it would be the right thing to do for France and Ireland to have another runoff in order for one them to go to the World Cup. And I can assure my Irish friends that we would do everything to manipulate the result in their favour.

Anyway must get back to talking with that Clinton woman and hope she hasn't seen this blog. 

Vote Loony!

Hello and cheese.

I would like to put it to you, and then take it out again. And then put it to you again, and then out again. And then shake it all about.

Election time is looming, rather like a tall and very hairy brown bear which has crept up on you whilst you enjoy a picnic somewhere in Eastern Europe, where they still have such things. Picnics, that is, not bears. And why, you may ask, is an election like a tall and hairy brown bear? Well, they both eat fish, for a start. And let's not forget the, er, the...

All over the country, people are shaking their fists at the telly. They are swearing at the radio. My Aunt Dorothy often chats to the pedal bin. When I was younger, I once propositioned a flipflop. None of this makes any difference though, we are still saddled with a hopeless government which continues to enrage anyone with half a brain, and a car, and a mortgage, and kids, and a desire to JUST GET ON WITH IT.

Clearly, the time for change is upon us, and so I say to you, the Great British Public, that your time has come. Vote Loony and all of this political nonsense will be cast aside as a new broom breathes fresh air, albeit brown and hairy air smelling slightly of bear, into Westminster.

We Loonys fully intend to change things. All MPs, for instance, will have to wear French Maid costumes, every other Friday. All right, a lot of them do anyway, but we'll ensure that this process is made public, in fact we'll hire an open top bus and cart the bastards around London, rain or shine.

We also wish to sort out the balance of payments. We will begin exporting beer and conkers, in vast quantities, to all the countries of the world. Proper brown beer, at cellar temperature, with no fizzy pop or lingering aftertaste of badger piss. Big conkers, shiny, tough, equal to any foreign conker. Once these exports have captured all the foreign markets, we will consolidate by exporting Daily Mail readers. No other country in the world could match our blinkered, bigotted, paranoid old farts and they'll pay good money to get their hands on them.

Well, I could go on, but frankly Mildred, I'd ruin my trousers. Just enough space to say hmm, let's stay anonymous for a while else the other parties might steal our policies. You can't trust any of them, you know. Back to brown bears again, really.