Attention bombers: Head for Barbados

WITH THE harvest in full swing and the fields bare, I have been spending most of my evenings shooting relocating foxes. And hares, rabbits, voles, mink released into the wild by animal rights loonies and the occasional stray dog.

This has left Mrs Beelzebub at a loose end and, with the shoe shops closing at 8pm and Big Brother over for another year, she has taken to sitting in the library with a bottle of Advocaat and a pile of Mills and Boon novels. This creates two problems. Firstly, it gives her ideas (nudge nudge, wink wink); secondly, she’s likely to spontaneously combust when she finds out that another of our national institutions is about to fall victim to the soulless modernisers.

Yes, my friends, publishers Mills and Boon have announced that in future their sloppy, slushy romantic paperback dross will be updated to reflect “modern life”. Out goes bodice-ripping and bare-chested bachelors and in come failed marriages, single mums and struggling divorcees. What utter tosh.

Surely these modern concerns are already catered for by the legions of “chick lit” books that litter airport shops? It sometimes seems that every failed 30-year-old career woman in the country has delivered an anguished tome about not being able to “have it all”. (It’s easy, ladies. Find a husband, have babies, stay at home and get the tea on the bloody table. Oh, and wear stockings after 8pm.)

While this unwanted and unnecessary updating will be about as welcome as John McCririck at a family funeral, I cannot help but ponder as to the tone of these modern romances. I’ve even had a go myself:

Sherilee shifted awkwardly on the bench outside the off licence. Her nylon thong was causing her grief. She watched as the insipid sunlight reflected on the can of Special Brew clutched in the sovereign ring-encrusted hand of the man of her dreams. Wayne was special, not like all the rest. Today was their third anniversary; a full three weeks since that night of passion in the alleyway behind the halal butchers.

The cigarette ash blew from the end of her Lambert & Butler and drifted into the pushchair where the twins, Primark and Makosi, were greedily pushing Chicken McNuggets into their mouths. The doctors were still at a loss as to how Sherilee had given birth to babies of different colours. That’s cider parties for you, she thought.

Wayne lifted a buttock, broke wind and passed the can of Special Brew to Sherilee. He was such a romantic, she thought. Now why don’t they ever write books about people like us …?

Yeah, I wonder why.

I’D BEEN wondering what to spend my Big Brother winnings on when I came across the intriguing story about wild animals being put up for sale on the internet.

According to the International Fund for Animal Welfare, you can now buy yourself a tiger or a few chimps just by logging on to e-bay. I am sorely tempted to snap up the adult male gorilla reputedly for sale in London.

It would be a laugh to release it in the Lower Meadow. And not tell my man Whittaker, who’s busy down there preparing his pack of hunting cats for the forthcoming season.

A MARRIED primary school teacher was jailed for 15 months this week after admitting an affair with a 14-year-old. Quite right too, I hear you say. Bang the dirty old pervert up. How dare he take advantage of a naïve youngster.

Except that the teacher in question is actually Mrs Hannah Grice, a 32-year-old mother of two. And her so-called victim is the teenage son of a family friend.

Can someone explain to me how justice has been served in this matter? Despite predictable cries from the mother of the “victim” that Mrs Grice has “stolen her son’s innocence”, what harm has really been done? Most 14-year-old boys think about sex every 20 seconds. Having the opportunity to fulfill some of those fantasies while enjoying the attentions of an older woman must be a dream come true, and will only stand the lad in good stead when he manages to find someone nearer his own age to play hide the sausage with.

Now this poor bloody woman has been taken away from her humiliated family and thrown into chokey at our expense. It’s madness.

And meanwhile thousands of pregnant 14-year-old girls swan around our council estates while the young adult males who impregnated them go ram-raiding with impunity. Once again the middle classes pay the price while the dole scum escape responsibility for their actions.

COULD ANY Al Qaeda operatives reading this please turn away now? I may be about to reveal a state secret.

A couple of months ago, before the London Tube bombings, one of Mr Blah’s henchmen contacted the editors of our national newspapers and asked them not to publish details of the Prime Minister’s forthcoming summer holiday for security reasons. An odd request, given that this family of freeloaders has shown no shame in publicly roaming the globe (usually at other people’s expense) in past summers.

For some reason the guardians of our free press acquiesced, although both the Daily Mail and The Sun have since published paparazzi pictures of Mr Blah and his Zippy-lookalike partner splashing around in the sea without identifying their whereabouts.

But why the subterfuge? Is the threat to the Prime Minister, who is comprehensively guarded, any greater than that which faces London commuters on a daily basis? And if the paparazzi can track him down, surely Al Qaeda could find him as well?

The whole thing is a nonsense. A cynic would even suggest that it’s just a smokescreen to disguise the fact that he’s off on another freebie courtesy of a wealthy supporter. Like staying at Sir Cliff Richard’s villa in Barbados once again. Know what I mean?

O The views of Mr Beelzebub are purely personal and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Editor or staff of this website, of anyone who hasn’t been busy baiting Australian bar staff over their cricketorial incompetence, of anyone daft enough to book a British Airways flight in August, or of anyone who can explain to me how Victoria Beckham managed to write her autobiography when she claims never to have read a book.