Election Special

New in Special Features
How Simon Sharp Got His Predictive Poo






The Big Fight
Finally, the election is upon us. It is a straight fight between the incumbent Member of Parliament, Sir Wilhelm St. John Charlemagne II and the John Horn Silver Mine union leader Mr. Liam Fox. In an unprecedented move the voting has been thrown open to Hornstown Herald readers.

To help you make your choice each candidate has written a few words to persuade you of their efficacy as a member of parliament.

Firstly, Mr. Liam Fox, 50.

Liam Fox
Photo: Van Vechen

We are the people of Green Hills. We tend the grass, feed the wildlife and contribute in a real way to the spirit of the land. Yet for too long now the privileged classes have controlled our lives. We the working classes toil under the yoke of capitalist oppression. It is a cloud that forever rains on us. We need to rise up and shout out loud, “I am a free man, or woman. Hear my voice.”

A vote for Liam Fox is a vote for truth and justice, fairness and compassion; a vote to protect the very bread on our tables.

The bloated capitalist Sir Wilhelm St. John Charlemagne II does not represent us, he represents himself and his friends. He uses his power, and government funds, to throw exotic drug parties and pay off innocent young women he has tarnished and spoilt. He once went so far as to lose the entire roadworks budget for a year on an obscene bet with a semi-naked pre-operative transexual. He is the antithesis of decency. His kind of decadence and indolence has no place in 21^st century politics.

Each vote for Liam Fox will push Charlemagne closer to a lasting egress.

You deserve better. You deserve respect. You deserve a real voice. You deserve Liam Fox.

And now, Sir Wilhelm St. John Charlemagne II.

Sir Wilhelm St. John Charlemagne II

I, Sir Wilhelm, knight of Green Hills, avenger of the weak, lover of the meek, promise the voters of Green Hills more money and more sex.

How will I accomplish this promise?

With tax cuts and a later start to the working day.

Take a family like Mr. and Mrs. Pill. The Pills are your average grubby working class couple. Mr. Pill toils away at the Panchestor Sanitation department, and earns a pathetic 300 Green Hills pounds a week. Mrs. Pill stays at home mentally abusing their three children. Both the Pills are becoming more and more unappealing as the months pass so no one wants to attempt a dalliance them.

I will make them beautiful again. I will make you all beautiful. Imagine how much better you would look if you had a lie in every morning and time for an agreeable shag every night – it's good for the skin and the soul. Imagine how much more attractive you will feel with some extra money in you pocket. Imagine a place where everybody is, as the Romans say, “Post coitum anima tristes est” - ah, what a beautiful sadness. We would all hug and sing along to The Smiths.

God bless my opponent, Mr. Liam Fox, but he is a small man with reasonable ideas thought up beneath a cloudy sky. I am the light, I am the one, I am a leviathan of joyful wonder.

A vote for me is a vote for regular copulation, a healthy complexion, and some rather pleasurable vicarious living. I will not let you down.


Message From The Editor. 
Dear reader, please do not forget to use your voting privilege on the top right of the page.

Pongo is free

Pongo

Pongo the orang-utan, arrested for the murders of Sarah Churchlikka and Violet Phipps, has been released from Panchestor prison without a stain on his character. Acting Inspector Wayne Duckery said, “After extensive investigating it turned out that Pongo had a water tight alibi, he lives in a cage in a zoo.”

Pongo on Holiday
Landscape: S. Thompson

Pongo has received counselling from pet psychiatrist Polly Slackcloth (32) after a failed suicide attempt with a banana skin. Ms. Slackcloth said, “Luckily for Pongo the banana skin makes a poor noose. We have only had eight hypnosis sessions, and we have already found that in a previous life Pongo was Charles de Gualle.”

We all wish Pongo a speedy recovery.

What A Pudding

Bishop Bishop

Father Farrell in Offending
Hitler Guise

Father Farrell has been exonerated after a sacerdotal trial led by Bishop Bishop the visiting bishop from Saint Columba's Cathedral in Magna City. Bishop Bishop found the priest to have been unwise, but well-meaning. In summing up Bishop Bishop said, “Farrell is a self-destructive delusional with an unhealthy obsession with archaic and ill researched catholic practices, but at least he doesn't fiddle with kids. He has promised to stop dressing as Hitler, bellowing blasphemous and pornographic profanities and carrying a sword, so he is forthwith reinstated as priest of St. Jude's.”

Father Farrell completed his first mass this Sunday. There were only 7 complains, and that was put down to vegetarians not wishing to try Father Farrell's new version of the body and blood of Christ. Father Farrell said, “I thought the congregation would applaud my timesaving upgrade to the Eucharist, but it turns out that not everyone is a fan of the black pudding toastie.”

Don't Do The Hokkicokki

The Hokkicokki Dance of Death
outside Panchestor Town hall

On Tuesday Panchestor High Street resounded to the whoops and hollers of the over a thousand angry Hokkicokki Indians. The Hokkicokki were protesting at what they see as an exploitation of their labour and ingenuity by the Duke of Panchestor.

Big chief Long Fish said, “We are slaves. While heep big Duke kisses the Green Hills Pound asleep each night, we kiss thorns. We toil and create and deliver our goods to the forked tongued one. He gives us blankets and charity. We guard the Yellow Ravine from death eyed interlopers, heep Duke gives us surplus meat stock. The Hokkicokki is not a donkey to kick and scorn. The Hokkicokki is a noble man.

Big Chief Long Fish

The Hokkicokki Indian lived in splendid isolation in the secreted and secure Green Hills for many thousands of years before the arrival of John Horn and the inevitable influx of further prospectors keen to stake their claim on the rich minerals buried just beneath the surface of this verdant land. From that time on the honest and decent Indian was pushed to one side, abused and ignored until their numbers had dropped to thirty-four. Only the forethought and kindness of the present Duke's father, Olaf Nettlewich, in the mid-twentieth century, gave the Hokkicokki back their pride and a corner of Green Hills to call their own.

Yellow Ravine
Carleton Wstkins

Now there is a thriving community of two and a half thousand Hokkicokki living on the far side of the hills in and around the Shiny Birches of Wilson Thicket. The indians make a living from the birches. They run a sustainable woodland and use the birch bark for lightweight canoes and birch tar. The wood is used in veneers and furniture-making for it's attractive graining, and the sap is used to make the lethal Hokkicokki birch brandy, a dangerous firewater popular with the kids of Magna city that gets one drunk from the legs up without affecting the male libido.

There is a rumour around the county that last winter a stranger was found unconscious in the Yellow Ravine. The stranger was near death. The generous Hokkicokkis nursed him back to health. People say that this stranger has been advising the tribe on there rights and the real value of their goods. It is said they call this man Dances With Words.

A trainee spokesperson for Lord Nettlewich said, “We ain't taking no sh*t from those indian mothers. If push comes to shove we will cut them off at the knees. Yes, that's the way it is, mofo.”

The News From Beyond

Mr. Fry

The news from around the world in as little time as possible brought to you by misanthropic malcontent, former FRY director and historical Artie Sim.

Bipolar brain box, Stephen Fry has been pencilled in as one of the judges for Simon Cowell's latest televisual infestation, The EXtinction Factor. Each week a selection of endangered species will audition for the judges and the most winsome and lovely animal will have it's habitat protected. The losers will vanish from the Earth.

Angela Merkel
With Winnie Mandela

The Duke of Panchester has sent a fact finding mission to Germany. The team will evaluate the possibility of obtaining a debt bail out from the alluring Angela Merkel.

In an exclusive interview the Duke said, “We do not have a fiscal deficit, but if the Germans want to throw their money away we are happy to help. That Merkel can bail me out any time.” The Duke has been looking for a new wife since the Duchess died in a freak carriage accident 10 years ago.

Anne Widdecombe
With Norma Major

Meanwhile, Rupert Murdoch has entered a Buddhist monastery in the dark hills of North Wales (left of England). Murdoch said, “Guess what's in my bag.” Murdoch has been joined by his sister, Anne Widdecombe, who is suspected of working part-time with an elite unit of dogmatists. Anne Widdecombe is reported as saying, “I'm only here for the beer.”

Max Merry's Survival Techniques

No7. How To Eat Beaver

The Ravishing Narcissus Beaver

Some say beaver is inedible. Some say you can only eat it if there is a 'R' in the month. Green Hills own natives, the Hokkicokki indian would say it is a delicacy and an aphrodisiac. I say it will keep you alive until help comes.

I was once trapped in a cave on the far side of Lake Doris in the middle of winter. I had lived on snow and lichens for 18 days. I felt weak and disoriented. Even though the winds still blew and the storm raged I ventured out in search of meat. I knew what I was looking for – I was looking for beaver.

I found the dam surprisingly quickly considering the covering of snow and followed an inlet upstream to the lodge. I then slipped my hand with delicate guile through the water to the subaqueous entrance and wiggled my finger provocatively, mimicking the Green Hills river slug – beaver can not resist river slug. The beaver struck. Oh the pain, the exquisite pain. I tugged hard, but the beaver just sucked and gnawed, pulling me deeper into the entrance. I am not sure how long I was locked in mortal battle with the beaver, but just as I was about to let out my last cry, I heard the beaver gasp and out popped a plump female. I struck her repeatedly with a rock until she was dead.

Lake Doris in the Summertime
Photo: Lidingo

Back at the cave I started a fire. After making an incision I slipped my good fingers beneath the fur and caressed my hand along the still warm bloody flesh.

A note to anyone who wants to try this recipe – it is important to remove all the rancid fat from the meat and avoid breaking the castor sac (it will contaminate the meat).

That beaver soup kept me alive for 3 days until help came. I will always remember how that zaftig female saved my life, and despite having to have my finger amputated, thereafter I have always loved and respected the beaver.

Ask Agnes

Agnes Skillet, Hornstown butcher and friend to all of Green Hills gives readers the benefit of her wisdom. Get the advice you need in a trusting environment and retain your anonymity.

Dear Agnes,

Mr and Mrs Nancy Reagan

I have a problem. The thought that out there somewhere was mad Mullah, Osama Bin Laden (54), made me feel as if every sexual experience would be my last. Now the Americans have go and shoot him dead I feel no jeopardy, I can no longer summon an erection let alone muster a discharge. My wife says I should think about all the other Al Qaeda operatives packed to the gills with TNT waiting to jump on me, but it is no good, I miss that lovely long beardy face.

Dear Mr. Plint

My brother, Keith, had a similar problem after Ronald Reagan passed away. I tried many cures before I found the right one. Keith responded favourably to swinging on garden gates. In your case I would suggest ring and run therapy. The pure exhilaration of making it back up the driveway before someone answers the door will soon rejuvenate your potency.

Simon Sharp and his Predictive Poop

Sometimes I rush to the toilet with excitement knowing that some divinatory doo doo regarding the big race at Kempton (England) will pay for my next holiday. I drop my pants and settle into position with joyful expectation, but no, what is this? The anticipated leathery log accompanied by the reassuringly smelly fizz of success is no more than a particularly awkward fart.

All is not lost, I can, sometimes, read a fart. This is why I always carry a recording device. I will spend a happy morning replaying my latest flatus, noting the timbre, clarity and rasp; the surge, quintessence and abatement of the blown prophecy. In this particular case the initial surge was a pure G# two octaves below middle C, followed by a rattling drawn breath and then a final four second burst of a fluttering top C. From this I was able to recognise the sign as a steam train drawing out of a station.

Baker's Bakery Big Bap Bonanza

Mr and Mrs Baker
in Happier Times

Mr and Mrs Baker of Baker's Bakery are drawing a line in the sand and saying no to the recession. Edith and Ernest Baker have now made their baps even bigger, “Look, bigger baps” said Edith Baker in an exclusive interview.

Holden on to a Hero
Sir Holden Strumpet, Green Hills poet laureate, is back again, and this time with what he believes is his greatest work. He has devoured and digested Herman Melville's Moby Dick and then, from his very core, disgorged a trilogy of poems as an homage to the book.

In an extraordinary exclusive The Hornstown Herald proudly presents the first part of, what will surely come to be called, The Holden Dick trilogy.

Breach Your Last To The Sun

There she breaches, there she breaches. Edith

Tosses herself salmon-like to heaven,

Churning herself into a furious speed.

Her milky thighs boom her entire bulk

Into the pure element of air.

She is a mountain of dazzling foam.

There she breaches, there she breaches. Edith

All at once seems combinedly possessed

By all the angels that fell from heaven,

And as she bears down on me I suspect

supernatural agencies are at work.

I disappear in this boiling maelstrom.

There she breaches, there she breaches. Edith

Rises with her utmost velocity,

And I draw towards the closing vortex,

The ever contracting circles she makes,

Creamed into new milk round her marble trunk.

I never think, I only feel feel feel.

There she blows, there she blows. Mrs Baker

is shrouded in a thin veil of mist.

She is ubiquitous and immoral -

Eternal malice are her whole aspect.

But now her way has begun to abate.

Breach your last to the sun, Mrs Baker.

For Sale

Vinyl dancing trousers, 32L.

They have become a little too tight

in the Paso Doble.

£16.78 or nearest offer.

Pan 4765

For Sale

For sale sign.

Unwanted gift.

£5 or will exchange for two tone

braided silk whistle lanyard.

Pan 9438

Wanted

Time Machine.

Must go backwards and forwards.

Lenny Tramp

Pan 9487

Lost

Attacking midfielder.

The beguiling and beautiful Lenny Tramp

was last seen wearing an enigmatic smile

and little else.

£100 reward for any information leading to his capture.

pan 3210

Editorial

It is all very well to free Pongo the orang-utan after all these months in gaol, but no one in the police force had the good grace to consider the psychological effects on this peaceful, shy primate. Yet after Acting Inspector Duckery attended a suspected break-in at Max Merry's World of Taxidermy, the inspector claimed £2200 in compensation for mental torment in the workplace. The bloated fool ended up settling out of court for an undisclosed sum (£150, a bottle of Hokkicokki brandy and a packet of fags). Pongo is finally getting professional treatment thanks to an anonymous benefactor (Lilith Glasscock).

I would like to thank Sir Holden Strumpet for giving The Hornstown Herald the exclusive debut of his wonderful poem, Breach Your Last To The Sun. A little bird tells me that if you have the willpower to trawl through a copy of Moby Dick you will find that every line is within the weighty tome (give or take a word), and is a direct reference to the whale. We at The Herald say life's to short, but I am sure some eagle-eyed and otherwise idle reader will pick up the challenge and a copy of Moby Dick.

I read the article about the Hokkicokki Indian with interest and concern in equal measure. I have a funny feeling about the one called Dances With Words – my sixth sense tells me we have met before and we will meet again.

Enoch Bentley

Next Week

The launch of the all new Word Competition

Mrs Baker reviews the latest in christmas decorations.

And an exclusive interview with someone very famous.