Why I say my Lords Prayer!

[bobby47]

After my exchange with Steve regarding 'Hell' I've been having a look at the book, titled, 'Hell. What a Dreadful Place', and in Paragraph six, subsection three it says that anyone who is an employee of the Hereford Council and they are simply carrying out the demands placed upon them by their political masters and their senior colleagues it says, and I bloody quote, 'they ain't going to hell and anyone who says they are has never read the book, 'Hell! What a Dreadful Place'. Which of course means that Tony Featherstone is not going to hell and Deirdre was completely wrong, which, given the circumstances, makes you wonder why anyone with any sense reads the Problem Page of The Sun in the first place.

Mind, Hell is a dreadful place. You'd be a fool to ever want to go there.

After failing my Eleven Plus examination in the sixties, I was dispatched to an All Boys Catholic School. There, you were certain of three things. Being buggered, getting the Latin and being told a great deal about God, earthly sins, which included masturbating and Lucifer, the Incubus and the Succubus.

No, you wouldn't want to go to Hell. You'd be an odd sort if that's what you wanted for yourself after your arteries became clogged up and you died in agony from a Heart Attack because your cholesterol had become sky high and you'd become more swine than human.

Basically, this is what happens after the Doctor says, 'good grief, he's **** himself, I can't find a pulse so he's dead.' Obviously you then whizz off downwards. Not upwards. Definitely downwards. If you find yourself going upwards then you ain't going to Hell, which might make you mutter, 'lovely Im not going to Hell'.

Once you arrive, you're met in the Reception area by Eva Braun who says in broken English, 'How nice to meet you. Welcome to Hell. Eat this custard slice and here's a tub of ointment to help your anus that'll be violated by the Succubus every fifteen minutes for the rest of eternity.

After you've completed all the administrative tasks, a bunch of Lucifer's Hand Maidens all rush in wearing skimpy nighties, drag you across the room, introduce you to the dark one, Lucifer who then pulls out a bloody sledgehammer and smashes it onto your right kneecap which immediately gives you a disability for the rest of eternity.

Then, still licking the cream off your lips after the custard slice, the bloody Incubus enters the room wearing one bloody boot. A huge monstrous thing constructed of the finest Portuguese Kid leather that has eighteen lace holes that secure this dreadful thing to his foot. He says, 'lads, this is the boot that'll kick your testicals every fifteen minutes of your time spent here in Hell'.

And that is Hell. Every fifteen minutes, not only are you sodomised, you get your testicals kicked as well. You'd be an odd sort if that appealed to you. And worse, there's no Bank Holidays and throughout your time in Hell they pipe one song into your pit of despair, over and over and over again. 'Billy Don't Be A Hero', by Paper bloody Lace.

You didn't know any if that did you? No! Because you ain't reading the right books. There, and anyone who says, 'what a load of tripe', I'd say, 'Yes, and there's plenty more where that came from'.

[twowheelsgood]

Odd but entirely true - I've been humming 'Billy, Don't Be A Hero' all morning, and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why because  it’s ghastly little tune, hellish even. I flick on the Hereford Voice eager for bobby47's latest bowl of tripe and there it is - proof positive I'm heading southwards - it'll be a pothole that does for me, you'll see.

[bobby47]

Oh I see. I get it. None of you bothered about the consequences of Hell then. Big Time bloody Charlie's who couldn't care less about being sodomised, having your testicals kicked and being made to listen to a bunch of Confederate Soldiers slaughtering a dreadful song for the rest of eternity.

Well don't come moaning to me when I hold one of my thrice monthly seances down at the Commercial. It'll be no good any of you trying to tell me via my bloody Ouija Board that the weathers s.h.i.t and complaining about being hung upside down. I'll simply shift my pointy thing around the board and tap my message back to you which will read, 'Clear Off. Get off the line. I'm having a bloody chat with my Grandmother'.

You can't help some folk!

[bobby47]

Course, I had a bit of the usual trouble last night in the Commercial. I was holding one of my seances that bloody none of you seem bothered about when all of a sudden, whilst I was trying to help Arthur, who's eighty seven, back living with his Mam and Dad because his wife Nora died and he wanted Nora to tell him where she'd hidden his porn collection, there was an unearthly tap, tap, tap on the Ouija Board. I thought funny, this ain't Nora and then, all of a sudden, without any prior warning I began to levitate.

I did, I began to rise toward the ceiling. Course, it all kicked off! 'He's floating away', they cried, 'He's trying to get out of the next round'. I said, 'I ain't no round ducker and I'll be damned if I put up with that sort of accusation. Pull me down before I float off and be gone forever'.

After they'd dragged me back to my seat, strapped me into my chair, I soon discovered who'd caused me to defy the laws of gravity and modern physics. It was only John Venn, Hereford City's greatest ever benefactor. I quickly tapped out a message that read, 'clear off Venn Im trying to discover the whereabouts of Arthur's porn collection. Get off the line. Be gone. Go bother someone else'.

And then it happened. With me eyes spinning like cherries in a one armed bandit, back came his reply as me hand and pointy thing whizzed around the Ouija board. The message read, 'Tell the bloody Council to leave the City be and under no circumstances should they destroy the Old Working Boys Home in Bath Street'.

[twowheelsgood]

Given that the good John Venn is buried just yards from where you were sorcering, I would say without a shadow of doubt that’s bobby47's report is truthful and that he is JV reincarnate, without the dog collar, and can be found at the communal baths scrubbing anyone's back for a groat.

[dippyhippy]

It's true!

It's all completely true!

 

I was there, I witnessed this incredible phenomenon!

And, to coin one of Bobby's phrases, anyone who says I didn't see it, was probably sat in the corner observing how much red wine I had consumed!!

 

John Venn's ghost - now there's a thing you wouldn't want to be messing with!