The Hand meets the President

Just this week The Hand has scooped an interview with none other than Beorge Jush, the President of the United States of Aggression. Having only a short time to spare for the President, in his whirlwind world tour, The Hand puts the crucial questions on everyone’s lips:

Hand: “Good morning Mr President. The conflict in Iraq appears to be creeping ever more out of control, involving citizens from around the globe. As many in the anti-war lobby predicted, it is becoming America’s second Vietnam. Only yesterday, three Brazilians were killed in a huge explosion in Baghdad. What is the USA’s long-term policy in Iraq, especially in the light of Mr Bumfeld’s sacking recently?”

Pres:” Shit! Goddamit son, what is that you say?!

How many millions in a Brazillion!? What? Oh, BRAZILIAN….Jeez that was a close call. Yeah, thanks, Thelma, two with cream and sugar. …..Well, Hand, what can I say, the tactical issues surrounding the things we didn’t know regarding weapons of mis-distraction, sorry mis-representation, errr….secret bomb hideaways, Viz a viz the known unknowns and the known knowns were dependent upon the Dow Jones sneaking up on the NASDAQ behind unknown Iranian influences at the time when we needed to know what later proved to be an unknown factor”Hand: “What?”

Pres: “To be honest son, you need to ask Bumfeld. Or Gates, y’know, the new guy”

Hand: “Don’t you know the forthcoming basis of your own country’s foreign policy, Mr President?”

Pres: “No”

Hand. “OK, Mr Jush, let me put the question another way. There is a groundswell of opinion, rapidly growing amongst the international community, that the conflict in Iraq was nothing other than a thinly-veiled policy of hawkish world domination in the light of the terrible events of 9/11. Effectively, that 9/11 gave you carte-blanche to dominate the Middle- East still further, enabling the price of oil to be artificially inflated, thus buoying up the stocks and shares at Wall St to compensate for the weak US Dollar as your country’s manufacturing base is rapidly being eroded by imports from China?”

Pres: “Yeah I watched that whole 9/11 thing on the TV. Terrible business. That sonofabitch Michael Moore had better keep out of my way or I’ll whup his ass real good”

Hand: “Seriously, Mr President. There are many people who see the invasion of Iraq as nothing other than a method of the USA swelling its corporations’ profits in the weapons, oil and construction sectors, all paid for by hi-jacked Iraqi oil money. How do you counter such accusations?”

Pres: “Listen, son. Have you ever met that camel-jockey Saddam Hooosain?”
Hand: “No sir, but he’s on my list of interviewees. Actually, I’d better get to him pretty quick, he might not be around too much longer….anyway, no, we’ve never had the pleasure.”

Pres: “Well, son, let me tell you. That turncoat rat’s ass no good cheatin’ low-life deserves everything he gets, and I’ll tell you why. The CIA supplied that man with enough firepower to light up Tehran like Jooly fourth when I-raq and I-ran was fightin’ each other like two polecats in a saddlebag. We backed that boy with our money like he was a sure-fire cert in the Kentucky Derby. Then, look what he done done; he took all the bombs, missiles and nasty gasses that we sold him, killed off all his enemies at home, and never paid them I-ranians much more than a boo to a goose. That’s why we never found so much as a Colt .44 slug when we went looking under every sorry-ass rock and sand dune in that goddam desert. When that goddam towel-head one-time buddy of my Daddy’s, Osama Bin Liner, hi-jacked them there airplanes, I decided to teach them heathens a lesson they’d never forget. You betcha, son!”

Hand: “But, Mr President, what is, or at least was, the connection between Bin Laden and Hussein? Aren’t they from entirely different religious sects? Doesn’t their belief system exist at opposite ends of the spectrum? Granted, they’re both dangerous lunatics, but that’s where any similarity ends, surely? Bin Laden was, or maybe still is, an anti-modernist Muslim fundamentalist with a desire to reverse technological progress to a world ruled by male-dominated religious dictatorship, installing an almost medieval feudal system. Hussein is, or soon to be was, a despotic power-crazed bloodthirsty dictator. The actions of the United States in Afghanistan, at least post 9/11, were seen by many as justifiable. The invasion of Iraq using the same vehicle was seen by many as absurd. Once again, why invade Iraq using 9/11 as the excuse?”

Pres: “I’ll tell you why, Mr Hand. Neither Bin Liner nor Hussein were Texans. Any sorry sonofabitch who doesn’t worship The Lord our God or eat at McDonalds is fair game for the wrath of God. And Ye shall know his name is The Lord when I wreak his vengeance upon you. Geddit?”

Hand: “Crystal clear Mr President. Thank you for being so frank. As you mention religion, turning now to domestic policy, your popularity in the polls is at an all-time low, despite your landslide re-election into a second term of office. Do you think that there are other reasons for this downturn, aside from the body bags returning from Iraq?”

Pres: “Well, son, I’ll tell you what the problems are in the USA today: liberals, heebies, darkies, vegetarians, Hispanics, democrats, Muslims, unions, women who don’t know their place, reformists, Buddhists, George goddam Clooney, Jane goddam Fonda, abortionists, Amnesty goddam International, the French, sodomites, godless heathens, Michael goddam Moore, John goddam Pilger, anti-handgun lobbyists, spurious website leftist journalistas, and anyone else I haven’t thought of.”

Hand: “Thank you again Mr President. In the light of those comments, is there any point in asking you questions about human rights issues, Guantanamo Bay, the rate of execution amongst black men in Texan jails, welfare to work programmes, gun laws, the KKK or anything else I haven’t thought of?”

Pres: “No, son. There isn’t”

Hand: “Thanks again, Mr President”

Pres: “Anytime, Hand, it’s a pleasure.”

Freddy the giant killer.

The Hand has been granted a rare interview with Freddy Eastwood, the footballer who was responsible for Southend’s Carling Cup victory last Tuesday against the mighty Manchester United.

Freddy was in the media spotlight recently, not only for his David v Goliath giant-killing act, but also because he is possibly the only professional footballer who proudly proclaims himself as a Romany Gipsy. He is currently at loggerheads with his local council, as he lives in a mobile home on an Essex site which has no planning permission for the structure. The Hand isn’t averse to watching the odd game of football, and so was keen to catch up with Freddy for a chat:

Hand: “Freddy, first off, congratulations! You must be over the moon.  How does the idea of moving up to the Premiership sound to you? I understand Aston Villa have been making enquiries into your availability for transfer”

F: “Well, hand, what can I say? It was a good game of football and no mistake. It was great to come home to the family and celebrate. I just kept hugging me little daughter Chardonnay, I was so proud, y’know….?”

H: “Chardonnay? That’s an unusual name for a little girl. All the fans will want to know; was there some special reason behind your choice?”

F: “Oh, no, it was all a bit of a laugh really. My lad’s called Freddy, and we just wanted a more inspiring name for the younger one when she came along. We were out on a shopping trip and my missus told me I had to think of a name within the next ten seconds. If I’d been driving past B&Q instead of Threshers she might have been called ‘Cuprinol’.

H: “Then she would have had to marry a ‘fence’ when she grows up, huh?”

F: “I read that McCartney interview on yer Ippi blog, and yer gags weren’t funny then either, Hand”

H: “Sorry, Freddy. So, was it that simple? You had to think of a name and you were driving past Threshers?”

F: “Sure. (Laughs) Like I said, I was actually hoping for twin boys, we’d driven past B&Q not five minutes before. Then they would have been christened ‘Spear’ and ‘Jackson’. Anyway, it’s not unusual for us celebs to have whacky names for our kids”

H: “Yeah, I know. How’s about Michael Jackson’s poor kid ‘Blanket’. What was that about?”

F: “That’s nothing, Hand. I heard from one of my top celeb connections at Stringfellows that there’s this big misunderstanding between all these musicians and celeb actors trying to out-do each other with natural, earth-mother organic type names. Feckin’ hippies the lot of ‘em! For example, did you know that Gwyn Paltrow and Chris Martin called their daughter Apple just because Chris was mad on his new I-pod? Nothing to do with bloody fruit. Bob “send yer feckin’ money in” Gettof got there first with ‘Peaches’ of course, but I betcha he was just driving past the local greengrocers, so that doesn’t count.”

H: “I never realised you were such a celeb-watcher, Freddy”

F: “Oh, I tell ya, the things we hear at our parties. For example, did y’know that they reckon Beckham’s kid was called Brooklyn, ‘cus that’s the supposed location of the child’s romantic conception?  Nonsense!  It’s just that Skegness is a really crap name for a kid, even by Posh’s standards “

H: “Skegness? Who’d have thought it?”

F: “ Yeah, then Sting called his daughter ‘Fuchsia’. Well I reckon that they just mis-heard him; he was on a good night out. My mate Gazza overheard him talking to some bloke from the press after a bash at Isabel’s nightclub on Knightsbridge. When asked if Trudie had thought of a name for their new daughter, he slurred ‘How the f**k should I know….”

I mean, just because Keith Richard’s daughter was called ‘Dandelion’, it doesn’t follow that he started the trend. Didn’t his next kid get saddled with ‘Burdock’? Now that IS weird.

H: “Well, not really. I mean, look at Frank Zappa. He called his kids Moon Unit and Dweezil. Even Bob Hope called his daughter Ikeketralopolis. Isn’t that a package tour destination?”

F: “Yeah, but Zappa’s in a league of his own for plain weirdness. He makes David Icke look like Iain Duncan-Smith. Anyway, Freddy and Chardonnay are perfectly normal names compared to some. Look at that goody-two-shoes, ‘I’m everyone’s big mate’ faux working-class Jamie Bloody Oliver. I mean, what sort of a bloke calls his kids ‘Poppy Honey’ and ‘Daisy Boo’? Pass me a bucket….”

H: “Sorry, Freddy, we could chat all day about names but we’re getting off track. Are you interested in playing for Aston Villa?

F: “They’ve no caravan storage space nearby, but we could work around it. I’ve been talking to my agent, y’know?”

H: “How did you feel when Derby County made their offer of a £1m transfer fee?

F: “Derby County? They always end up with less points than a triangle at the end of every season. No thanks, I’m not that desperate. Mind you, at least they can beat Nottingham Forest, but so could Fred & Chardonnay with a little practice. D’y know why they’re called Notts FOREST ?

H:” No.”

F:  “Fear Of Relegation Every Saturday Tea-time.”

H: “Nice one, Freddy. Now, what about your relationship with your team mates since……”

F: “Sorry, Hand, got to dash off,  I’ve somewhere really important to be. I never realised the time.”

H: “What is it, Freddy, an interview with Sky TV, or a hush-hush meeting with Liverpool FC, do tell…?

F: “Nah, we’ve got some tarmac in the back of the tipper, if we don’t get it cut with diesel and down on somebody’s drive it’ll be useless by tonight. Keep up the good work Hand”

Sir Small McCourtney

The Hand has been busy on behalf of Ippimail users, digging into today’s shallow celebrity culture to bring you all the up to the minute gossip, facts and figures on the showbiz charlatans and infamous idols. Do they support charities? Do they use Ippimail? Do they floss? Do they eat kebabs? Do they have that extra hot chilli sauce? How long does it take them to phone’n’moan that their pizza is later than scheduled? Do we care?

Unfortunately, it seems that we do. It is a sad reflection on our world that not only are we interested in Britney’s choice of cond…ah ah, wait for it…….condiment, that we spend a small fortune on celeb mags and gossip column tabloids. So, The Hand says, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

Talking of pizza delivery, there is a long-standing urban myth surrounding Sir Small McCourtney, vegetarian singer/songwriter of some repute, who amassed a fortune filling scrapbooks with crushed insects, or beetles albums, as they are better known.

Apparently, Sir small and his late wife once had a pizza delivered on British Airway’s Concorde to their home in Scotland from their favourite pizza parlour in New York City. If that’s not a lot of food-miles I don’t know what is. Talk about carbon footprint? Worse than the annual Yeti’s convention BBQ.

The Hand caught up with Sir Small recently to ask those searching personal questions, the ones on everyone’s lips:

Hand: “Sir Small, you are going through a very painful divorce just now. What was it you saw in Heathen at first?”

Small: “Well, you have to admit she’s got great ti…”

Hand: [Interjects] “Timing!?!”

Small: “ Er, yes… exactly…”

Hand: “But seriously, throughout all this speculation about divorce lawyers, money, pre-nuptial agreements and deep mine shafts, it must be a difficult time for you. How has it affected the creative aspect of your work?”

Small: “Deep mineshafts? Sorry, I don’t follow…”

Hand: “Surely it’s true that you met Heathen in South Africa after her tragic accident after she lost a leg?”

Small: “South Africa? What?”

Hand: “As I understand it she was working in one of the lower shafts down a gold mine near Pretoria. One of the pit props broke free, severing her leg instantly. The unfortunate woman passed out, regaining consciousness in hospital the next day. Her first question to the surgeon was ‘Doc, I’m finished. Who’s going to need a one-legged gold-digger…?’

Small: “Not funny, Hand. Start asking me some serious questions or I’ll call security”

Hand: “Ok, Ok. So, what’s to the rumour about these missing documents reported in the press a couple of weeks back. Your ex is claiming that you drink excessively, and that you’re often high on cannabis”

Small: “Yeah, so?”

Hand: “ Do you deny those allegations?”

Small: “Yeah, of course. I don’t hardly smoke the reefer nowadays, since, since, well, me short term memory’s a bit shot, y’know. I haven’t had a spliff in days…..as for drinking, well, who doesn’t enjoy a few bottles of Mouton Rothschild with lunch. It’s not all beer ‘n’ skittles as a rocker y’know. There’s all the charity work, walkin’ me dog, faxing the pool cleaner, giving interviews to spurious website reps. What’s more I’ve got me daughter on the phone each week asking for another cheque to cover the losses on an unsold batch of designer clothing. Design?! I dunno where she gets it from, that last creation on the catwalk looked like two seals twisted in a hammock…..would you pay three hundred quid for that? Kids, eh? Don’t get me started.”

Hand: “Yes, you mention charity work, many people admire your tireless fight against the seal-fur trade. Will the potential loss of £200 million pounds after the divorce case force you to release a new album or perhaps tour again. It’s a lot of money”

Small: “Two hundred mill? I’ve chucked more money at a paparazzi if I couldn’t find a half-brick.”

Hand: “Finally Sir Small, any message for the fans?”

Small: “Yeah, thanks for everything, keep the fan mail coming, it’s a real help at this difficult time. Yeah, and keep buying them veggie burger things”. (Aside) Fancy a quick drink on your way home, Hand?”

Hand:’ Don’t mind if I do Small. Canadian Club on the rocks is it……”