Hehe, I was just thinking about what else you could be referring to when you say "Richard Littejohn's column".

Then I felt all dirty for thinking about Littlejohn

poovery.

poovery.

littlejohn's worst nightmare...




(click here if the pic doesnt show)

Copyright 2006 Associated Newspapers Ltd.
All Rights Reserved
DAILY MAIL (London)

March 28, 2006 Tuesday

LENGTH: 1236 words

HEADLINE: RICHARD LITTLEJOHN COLUMN

BODY:


THE Ministry of Defence is setting up a helpline offering welfare and legal advice to all serving and retired personnel. A pilot scheme is already under way. This column listened in.

Thank you for calling the MoD hotline. All calls are recorded by Military Intelligence for your safety and protection and may be used against you in a court martial. If you wish to speak to a confidential adviser, please press One. Hello?

Wait for it, wait for it, WAIT FOR IT! Who gave you permission to speak?

Sorry. Sorry, SARN'T MAJOR! Any more insubordination and I'll have your guts for garters, my lad.

Sorry, Sarn't Major. Shut UP! If you're calling about bullying, press Two.

Hello? Come along, soldier. Out with it. This better be good or you'll find yourself back at Deepcut. Name, rank and unit.

Gunner Beaumont. But you can call me Gloria. I'm serving in a concert party in Basra.

This hotline is for real soldiers, not a bunch of pooftahs. What's your problem?

I was wondering if I could get the MoD to pay for a sex- change operation.

Come to think of it, you probably can. Have a word with human resources and we'll get the M.O. tobook you in at The Wellington. Next! If you is calling about self-esteem, press Three.

Hello? Gunner Parkins, here. And what can I do for you, lovely boy? I'm not sure I'm cut out for this soldiering lark, Sarn't Major. Someone took a picture of us rough handling some rioters who were throwing grenades at us, and even though we'd done nothing wrong it made us look bad and now we're being accused of torture and war crimes and everything. Nonsense. You've got a fine pair of shoulders. Show 'em off, show 'em off. But if I were you I'd get yourself a decent lawyer and don't answer the door to anyone from the Daily Mirror. Next! If you is calling from the Territorial Reserve, press Four.

Private Pike here. Walmington-on-Sea Home Guard, stationed in Kandahar. Mr Mainwaring says I can't wear my scarf on manoeuvres but my mum says I've got to or else I'll catch my death of cold out in these mountains. You know what the Afghan winter is like. It goes right through you.

And he says it's too dangerous for me to have the Tommy Gun, but how am I expected to fight the Taliban with a carving knive on the end of a broomstick, that's what I want to know, 'cos none of those new selfloading rifles work and the boots are rubbish, too, and the helicopter taking us to the Tora Bora broke down again. Why can't I have one of those big sabres like Errol Flynn had in The Charge Of The Light Brigade, eh? And anyway, if we're supposed to be liberating them and bringing them democracy, then why are they always shooting at us?

Stupid boy. I'm telling my Uncle Arthur. SHUT UP! If you is calling with a genuine grievance, press Five. Hello? I'm serving with the SAS in Iraq.

Now you is talking. Anyway, it's like this. I'm a member of a unit which has just staged a daring raid to free some British and Canadian hostages being held by Al Qaeda terrorists.

That's what I call soldiering. Thing is, you see, no one has said 'thank you' to us and that's well out of order. I think I should sue.

So do I, lovely boy. I suggest you contact General Sir Mike Jackson. You could be entitled to compensation.

--

SPEAKING of the NHS, a hospital has admitted allowing patients bent on self-harm to cut themselves with knives -- under medical supervision. St George's in Stafford even advises them on the best blades to use and the safest places on the body to slice.

No doubt they run a free bar for alcoholics, too, dispensing tips on the relative merits of Diamond White, Special Brew and Esso Blue. I'm reminded of the old joke about the Punk Samaritans. You rung them up, telling them you were going to kill yourself and they told you how to do it. You couldn't make it up.

--

THE Old Bailey terror trial has heard that Al Qaeda planned to set up burger vans outside football grounds, selling toxic fast food to unsuspecting infidel fans.

How would anyone tell the difference? They've been at it in Tottenham High Road for years.

--

THE appalling treatment of the elderly in NHS care is a national scandal. But it's not just the elderly, and it's not just the NHS. It is merely the pimple on the surface of the carbuncle.

At every level, every day, we are all treated with contempt and cynicism in our dealings with the state. The public sector is run for the exclusive benefit of those who work in it. The paying public are regarded at best with cynicism and callous disregard and, at worst, as little better than criminals. Name me one government agency which treats you as a valued customer -- even though, thanks to Gordon Brown, you are paying through the nose for it.

The Government and its apparatchiks see citizens as numbers, to be bullied, monitored, corralled, threatened and punished at every available opportunity -- from parking on a yellow line outside a chemist's for two minutes, to putting your rubbish in the wrong kind of bag.

The NHS, for all the billions thrown at it, is what the UN would call a failed state. It doesn't work and no one has any idea how to fix it. Or cares less.

This week, a colleague who was mugged waited six hours to see a doctor in casualty, surrounded by vagrants and winos, without the medical staff showing the slightest interest in treating him. This is Brown's Britain -- a bloated, bureaucratic, busted flush.

And if and when the brooding bean-counter ever makes it to Number 10, things can only get worse.

--

LOOK carefully at those pictures of the Blairs Down Under. Do they strike you as if they're going away in a hurry? The Wicked Witch was bouncing up and down at the Commonwealth Games like a groupie at a Bros concert.

It was on a par with the exhibition she made of herself in the Millennium Dome a few years ago.

Waving to the crowd, hugging Tessa Jowell, barging in to the dressing rooms. I hope they counted the medals afterwards. Just in case.

There was Blair, preening himself before the Aussie Parliament, playing the world statesman. He always comes alive the further he is away from Britain.

The WW may have been pictured yawning, not for the first time. But that doesn't mean she was bored. She simply doesn't have any proper manners. She's socially dyslexic.

They certainly didn't look like a couple contemplating a quiet, early retirement. For a start, they both like the high life too much.

Whatever Blair earns from his memoirs and his lectures, he'll never be able to afford to charter a non-stop 777, complete with stateroom, to waft them to the other side of the world in the lap of luxury.

While he's Prime Minister, he simply hijacks the Royal Jet.

Nor are they going to start paying for their holidays if they can avoid it. The WW even sent a car across London to pick up a packet of free Air Miles from a newspaper office. I wonder if they

claimed Air Miles on the trip to Oz.

They both know that the invitations will dry up once they're out of Number 10. Their marquee value will wilt and, if not pariahs, they'll soon be on the C-list.

Blair gave the game away when he admitted he'd made a mistake announcing that he intended to stand down after a third term. It wasn't the announcement that was the mistake, it was the decision to stand down.

Despite his current travails, Blair will return from Australia revitalised. Reports of his demise are premature, little more than wishful thinking.

We haven't seen the last of this shameless pair of freeloaders yet.

LOAD-DATE: March 27, 2006

Nice to see that, in among the usual obsession with homosexuality, he approves of torture