Now we’ve been away for a while, but don’t believe any of what you heard. We’ve never even heard of “dogging” and as if someone would do that to a van full of coppers.
While we’ve been away, things around here…well, they’ve gone astray somewhat. I mean, how else can we explain the presence of a Consol Scumcenter and a village practically devoid of drunks.
But Daddy’s back now, and he’s going to take his naughty children in hand. So as I heft the weight of my leather spankin’ strap in one hand, my eyes rove around Moseley, like the great and fiery Eye Of Sauron, and then they fix on one, most worthy, candidate for punishment.
So, Mr Stein. Where do we begin?
You are writing for B13, the LEAST subversive, controversial and interesting magazine ever published. Your sub-E.O.M droolings make me sick. It’s like watching a crowd beat and poke a special needs person into performing “The Birdie Song” for them. Have you no pride? It’s a horrifying situation to behold, akin to witnessing Joe Pasquale, the helium-throated comedy infant, writing jokes for Tipper Gore or Rush Limbaugh.
And the most appalling thing is that you so obviously crave the discerning mass audience of Eye on Moseley, but you know, deep down, we would never take you.
There is only room for two separate and distinct media publications in Moseley. The be-tweeded Hobbits of B13 with their poetry pages and their history of Brummie hedgehogs and the bitter bile issued forth by our own true selves. There is no crossover. They don’t do funny, anymore than we do factual.
So you must die.
I formally declare that we will grant the key to Moseley and free access to Willy for one week, to the woman or man that brings me the head of Dulux Stein, on a silver platter. Do your duty, Moseley-ites.