Prince Harry, Coming at You

Here I am again poo-chatters! That's right, Bertram is in Poo Chat overload. After seeing the pictures of my Godson Harry Wales (I suppose most of you refer to him as Prince Harry), I decided you'd all love a peek into what the future holds for world's coolest Royal.

So without further a-do, I give you Prince Harry:

Hi, poo-chatters how are you all getting on? Captain Harry Wales at you service. Bertram informs me that you've all just become aware of my Afghanistan adventure, well, if you liked that: you haven't seen anything yet!

In a week (or possibly two) you will hear that I managed to resolve the issues over there with a combination of hard fighting and serious party action. Yep, those Taliban buggers just needed a swift kick up the arse, followed by a jolly good knees-up.

So here's the debrief: Ghurkha Jim (my best army bud') and I got sick of kicking our heels in front of the press ("awful people" as Dad might groan), so we hatched a plan to sort out this terrible mess. After all it's about time us Royals did something useful.

We strapped on our SA80 assault rifles and ran at the Taliban trenches, the most cunning part of this plan was making Ghurkha Jim wear absolutely nothing, except a pair of fishnet tights (to slightly preserve his modesty). I, of course, was dressed as Poll Pot (I'm trying to "collect the set" of genocidal maniacs).

As soon as we leapt over the enemy trench those silly bastards started pissing themselves. At this point Ghurkha Jim and I decided: shooting them would be poor form. We spent the next two days kicking everybody we came across straight up the arse-hole. That seemed to sort things out, although if I'd have found that dirty-dibo* Ossama I might have made him drink so much Pimm's that his blood sugar would have been off the scale.

Once everyone was back on the straight and narrow it was time to party! Ghurkha Jim emptied his rucksack revealing a mountain of blue-Aftershock (he loves that shit), the Tallywhackers** took one sip and changed the rules of Islam. The party lasted two weeks (it all got a bit stilly once the heroin was being passed around though; those buggers know how to make the good shit).

Anyway, best dash off I'm sorting Iraq out next week (Chelsy wants to come too, silly trout).

Love to you all

Captain Hazza

* Bertram here, "dibo" is Harry's name for Diabetic people; god knows what he's got against them.

** Tallywhackers is Captian Hazza's affectionate name for the Taliban

Smakka Shaka Lacker Macca

Have you missed me Poo Chatters? I am awfully sorry but I've been stuck in the past with Paul "Macca" McCartney (no, I'm not referring to his set at the Brit awards) and was rendered incommunicado!

So, allow me to end the Poo Chat drought and let you back in on the excitement, we're back1966 and it's time to drop acid with everyone's third favourite member of Wings: Sir Paul McCartney.

A "whacked out" Paul writes from his silver hammock suspended over an enormous bowl of Heinz lentil soup:

---

Whoa, hiya guys Paul "Macca" McCartney here. Let me tell you guys that I'm high on LSD and it's one hell of a ride whhhheeeeeeooop! Was that a crow with a human bottom? This trip is whacky.

Anyway, my good chum Bertram Bum Roberts has been staying with me the last few weeks and he's one hell of a groovy guy, allot like you folks I guess? A huge appetite for tripping out.

So, Bertie and I were high as kites last Tuesday, I was telling him all about a weird hallucination that I'd just experienced when he became very exited and told me to write the whole thing down and post it on Poo Chat (we're all big fans in the Beatles, Ringo says it makes him feel randy, randy bloody Ringo: the dirty git - that's what we call him anyway.).

The acid craziness started with a huge vegetarian sausage looming over me "You'd better make some poorly thought out comments about how farmers are gay and pointless or I'll be up your bum like Kerry Katona up a cabbie's trouser leg" boomed the Cumberland. Who the fuck is Kerry Katona, I thought? But good advice none the less.

But as soon as I was starting to enjoy Mr Sausage's company, he dashed off with my pants and trousers (luckily I keep my cash in a bum bag)! Lost and forlorn I had no idea what to do next; I appeared to be in a deserted city from the future. I had aged significantly but my skin was tighter, I felt like a bed that had been to tightly tucked in. Also, my hair had turned into a cloud of orangey-brown fart that stuck to my scalp where ever I went. I don't know where Bertie had found this acid, but it was strong shit.

Suddenly a frightening high-pitched Geordie voice echoed throughout the deserted streets!

"Paul you scrotey little died haired runt! You're shit at music and you're thumbs-up 'dance the night away' wank-shop song is the shittest thing I've ever heard!"

"Help! Somebody, please help!" I shrieked. I was petrified; this was some bad acid man.

"Make me hop to the shitter would you?" The voice squealed back. "After all that charity work, you still won't let me unload my bowels under the sheets!"

Just then the voice took a physical form; a peg-legged mad-woman appeared. I turned and ran, as I did all of my lovely money started tumbling from my bum-bag. I ran, and I ran. And then I ran some more, but fucking hell that hop-along bint could move (I found it strangely saucy though, as the bulge in my bum-bag reduced the one underneath it increased).

Suddenly I snapped out of it... phew! It was one hell of a ride, but it scared the bejesus out of me. It was then I decided that I should get my twatty security-look-a-like Dan to take my place and live the rest of my life for me. This fame gig was getting too crazy for a nice scouser like me.

Besides, if that's what I've got in store I'd much rather Dan dealt with it (because he's a bit of a twat).

Kevin Keegan Loves It

Hello again Poo Chatters! Doesn't Monday just wiz around before you know?

Last week was rather exiting for an old footballing friend of mine, Mr Kevin Keegan. Seven days ago he was pottering about at the Soccer Circus in Glasgow, but by Wednesday he was back in the saddle at Newcastle, ready to ride the Geordies into another CERR-RAZEY adventure!

This news hit the headlines like a cold-wet football to some wind battered bollocks. What? When? King Kev! Can he do it? Isn't he an emotional wreck of a man, incapable of wiping his own bottom? Speculation was rife, but the general consensus points towards abject failure.

After all this I took it upon myself to visit the future and interview the Kevinator. The following is a transcript of the event. But remember: as you are reading this in the present it is most likely to cause a temporal disruption and therefore create an entirely different outcome (or not as the case may be).

Poo Chat: Good morning Kevin, how's life?

Kevin Keegan: Pretty good, in fact great!

PC: Glad to hear it. Now our readers back in 2008 have only just discovered your re-appointment. Can you let them know what has happened since?

KK: I'd love to [Kev's eyes widen in a crazed fashion], LOVE TO! So, it started with a draw with Bolton, people were already muttering about us messing up, but I knew best. I quickly introduced a no shorts or pants strategy. And it led to our most incredible run ever!

PC: Wow, so how did that work?

KK: Well quite simple really, it all started away to Arsenal in the FA Cup.

I was about to lead the lads out, when I had the brain wave: "Lads lets stick it up 'm today" I yelled "get your nobs, balls and bums on display and let's get stuck in!" They loved it, AND I MEAN LOVED IT! They flew out of that tunnel like shit from an irritated bowel.

Old Wenger's eyes nearly fell out of his head! "Beautiful football?" I said to him, "get a load of this you fancy French ponse!"

Twenty-four nil we won, those southern fairies had their eyes on the wrong balls for the whole 90 minutes!

PC: So you stuck with the free tackling approach?

KK: Sure did, we blitzed the rest of the season, won the league and the FA Cup! And all thanks to our uninhibited new style. The Toon Army had their first silverware since '69, and I'm not talking about Alan Shearer's silver medal in the "Considerate Lover's Roasting Olympics".

PC: That must have been the best feeling of your career so far?

KK: What? Not a chance, the best moment that season was finally getting my own back on that smug prick Alex Ferguson.

PC: How did that come about?

KK: Well, it was Saturday the 23_rd of February 2008, Man United were visiting us in the league, and the build up had been tense. Fergie was spoiling for a fight; I think he even brought up my "outburst", no one pulls that shit with me.

On top of this he'd managed to desensitise his payers to our tactics by getting Rio Ferdinand to parade around the locker-room waggling his willy (and singing "I like the way you move" by The Body Rockers) at the players until they no longer found it distracting. It was going to be a big match, so I had to pull the trump card!

There was only one thing for it: a direct anti-Alex initiative! I Had a quick word with Damian Duff. "Duffer, you're going to have to sacrifice yourself." I said. He knew what I expected.

Five minutes gone and the Mancs had the upper hand, our exposed bolocks were making no difference what so ever, in-fact Rio was still bare and humming and to make matters worse that winker Ronaldo had done the same thing, disgusting! It was time for Duffster to do his thing.

Whilst chasing the ball down the left wing, he spotted Fergie close to the edger of the dugout. Feigning a bad tackle, Damien lunged towards Sir Alex. Just before going to ground he pulled the belt from the United managers trousers. Now, as most managers know from the after match bottle of wine, Fergie is allergic to baked-beans and underpants. So, as soon as his trousers hit the floor the Milburn Stand was treated to a view of Alex's phallus and testicles!

A chant soon rang out across the stadium "YOUR BALLS ARE AS RED AS YOUR NOSE!" Then they spotted the skid mark in the back of his beige trousers (I'd managed to slip a baked-bean into his chewing gum packet): "FERGIE'S GOT A SKID MARK!"

The best day of my life, I loved it. LOVED IT!

Ray Mears and the Roundabout

Welcome back dear reader! I trust you are having a satisfying and rewarding week?

Yesterday I was spending a lazy morning perusing the channels on my lovely flat screen television. I've just installed it in the "snug" (over in the east wing). If anyone tells you that "these things will be out of date before you know", don't listen: I was recently visiting Kerry Katona, and her 20 illegitimate children, over in 2010_AD; she is still watching the same set she acquired last Christmas.

("It's all I have left of the Iceland money!" she sobbed into a futuristic, but filthy, rag. Then her new husband, a rather brutish lavatory attendant, appeared and began issuing some peculiar, garbled sounds from his mouth. I thanked Kerry for the (musty) Iceland Strawberry Gateau and skedaddled.)

But I digress, whilst viewing my lovely new television: who's broad, pudgy face popped in to view? Why none other than my old chum: survival expert Ray Mears. It was this pleasant surprise that formed the idea for this week's Poo Chat post.

How did Ray climb the slippery pole (to success)? What is his motivation? Where did it all start? The following is a short piece that the 15 year old Ray Mears produced for me in 1979. During the meeting I found him to be charming, determined and just a little wild-eyed. Enjoy.

Today I have set up my camp in the deep foliage of the Epson Rd Roundabout, just east of Guildford, Surrey.

A couple of days ago I had a bit of a falling out with my Dad. It was over my latest attempt to survive under the sofa, foraging for crumbs and any other sustenance I could find. Not a problem in itself, but, Dad's mates were over to watch the football. When one of them knocked over my water refinery (a cunning device that filtered condensation from the window, through a sofa cushion and into my favourite Worzel Gummidge mug) into the back of the television; "it all kicked off", and I'm not talking about the footy!

So, now I've finally been allowed out into the wild "for the good of the household". My roundabout camp consists of:

• A shelter, made from a woman's dress that I found hanging from the big tree in the middle of the roundabout. It's rather badly stained, but this acts as waterproofing and it is holding up pretty well.


• My toilet is a discarded Pringles packet with the bottom cut out. This acts as a spillway into the grid by the side of the road. Refinements are needed: firstly, it is rather difficult to aim solids. Secondly, there is very little bush cover on the grid side of the roundabout, so I am subjected to horn honking and rude shouting from passing cars. Just this morning I was moving my bowels when I was greeted with a loud "Oy! Mate! I can see your fucking arse hole!"
  Very unpleasant.

It's a modest camp I know, but we all have to start somewhere. I wish there was a television program that could instruct young adventurers, like myself, in the practice I think I will name… Hmmm, well I'm in a bush, so, Bush-craft. I tried cubs once, but it seemed to involve diving into the newspaper recycling to retrieve porno mags. I find self-teaching is much better; and there is still a lot of pornography to be found in these bushes (why do people wank in the car?), bonus!

Anyway, I think I'll head home tonight. It has been a great adventure – excluding the run in with the randy tramp last Wednesday (the bugger got my shorts off, but I managed to throw him onto the traffic). My biggest problem has been food; I've been living off kebab remnants and drinking the dew that collects on my dress/shelter. It's a real shame there is nothing to catch and eat. A waste of the knife and fork I've been whittling from the heels of a pair of abandoned lady's shoes. I guess I should fatten up in case this type of thing happens again.

Well I'm off now, Dad's just pulled up. Hope to talk to you again.

Ray.