Your Leader Appears To Be An Ice Cream

Written while shaking uncontrollably with the fear of an imminent nuclear attack by Logan Bluetooth

Fate, like the sea, is a harsh mistress, or so I’m told on the rare occasion that someone of the fatalistic persuasion manages to somehow penetrate my network of ruthless capitalistic acquaintances. Oh, how I loathe these weak-minded merchants of dross. But Logan, everything happens for a reason. Good lord. Inevitable predetermination and an entire lack of free will surely dictates that I wouldn’t be wrestling with the tantalising options of either sodomising the fatalist with a wine glass or verbally sodomising them with the acerbic wit I’m so well known for. No, as an advocate for plutocracy, I subscribe to the Sarah Connor (of Terminator fame) school of thought – there is no fate but what we make. So if something like an army of homicidal self-aware killing machines is going to be a problem for you, go and shoot the idiot that invented them before he invents them.

Seething hatred for fatalists aside, I still harbour a firm belief in cause and effect. The Mobar Gazette was launched almost a year ago with very little fanfare and even less cocktail sausages and canapés. And while most of our writers are dotted around the globe in various exotic locales, for tax purposes our headquarters are rooted firmly in the United Kingdom. Since the gestation of this publication, however, certain events seem to have conspired against us. A crippling recession, an increasingly annoying public demand for openness and accountability, and a socialist government hell-bent on taxing the absolute suitcase out of the wealthy – the very people who made this country what it is today.

So as the stench of rising unemployment wafts through the window along with the shrill (and also unemployed) caterwauling of protesters outside our offices, and an 80p in the pound tax rate thumps its red fists against our front door, we say enough is enough. I simply cannot endure another moment of this quasi-socialist madness. Eoinín has been brainwashed by the whingeing of the population and now spends his days writing juvenile complaint letters to anyone who will listen. Peter feels that the abundance of CCTV in London is severely impacting upon his extra-curricular activities. We long to reside in a nation with perpetual sunshine, dangerously loose morals, an intoxicatingly violent competitive national sport, low or non-existent tax rates, freakish animals, rampant alcoholism, and a relaxed attitude to just about anything you can shake a didgeridoo at.

So we’re moving to Australia.

Situated just above Antarctica and a little to the left, mainland Australia is roughly the same size as France. It was discovered in 1896 by Sir Donald Bradman, a wealthy, opium-addicted British industrialist and hater of cats. Bradman had originally set sail from the motherland in search of new sources of spices, slave labour and a good location for timeshare apartments for British retirees. Instead, Bradman happened upon a large, relatively uninhabited landmass which, as far as he and his crew could see, held no attractions other than Rooland, a poorly maintained amusement park set up by the native inhabitants. Undeterred, Bradman and his crew set about slaughtering the locals and claiming the strange new land for the British Empire, recognising that one can never have too many tax havens with an abundance of sunshine and a distinct absence of morals.

And so, in the grand tradition of Monaco, the Cayman Islands, Jersey and the Republic of Ireland, a shady tax haven using tourism as a legitimate front was born. Entrepreneurs, professional sports stars, chief executives and war criminals flocked to Australia to hastily stash their ill-gotten booty in the myriad shell companies that had sprung up with the blessing of Queen Elizabeth II. It remains a perfect example of what all tax havens should aspire to be – a living, breathing, fully functional tax dodging entity that appears to be nothing more than a vapid cultural vacuum with an addiction to the precious capital of south east Asia.

We first learned of the existence of Australia last week, after being approached by representatives of President Kevin Rudd. They gave us a promotional video, and while the production costs weren’t extremely high, it had us convinced. The fact that Gordon Brown is slashing the UK’s nuclear arsenal while our close neighbours Iran are arming themselves to the teeth and threatening to blind us with enriched uranium has also had a slight influence on us, in that we’d like to be beyond the range of an inter-continental ballistic missile during business hours. So the offer of minimal tax, champagne on arrival and what is ostensibly immunity from most Australian laws really couldn’t have come at a better time.

Unfortunately for you, dear readers, a trans-hemispherical move of business premises is not without its difficulties. And as tempting as it is to leave party guru Hans Öffmeinbürger in charge of things while we’re in transit, we just couldn’t afford the various lawsuits that would invariably arise in the wake of four long weeks of articles along the lines of Dummkopfs That Hans Hates Because They Are Ugly Und Fornicate With Farm Animals, or whatever it is that he normally writes. Therefore, for the next month or so, the Mobar Gazette will be publishing excerpts from the International Drainage Commission’s 16th Annual Symposium on the effects of tidal movements on government foreign policy and industrial relations legislation. For those of you about to be thrust into autumn, mind out for the leaf tigers. We shall see the rest of you connoisseurs of low standards in about a month.

The Art of Letter Writing # 27: Hans Öffmeinwaterbottle

Written in a huff by Eoinín McAlpine

Dear Office Cleaner,

You and I have never spoken. In fact, as far as I’m aware, we’ve never even laid eyes upon each other. What we have could barely be called a relationship; I would describe it more as an understanding. I come in during the day and arrange words in sentences and paragraphs, and you pop in for a couple of hours in the evening to empty bins, disinfect surfaces, vacuum the carpet and clean the vomit off Peter File’s keyboard. Until quite recently, I’ve been more than satisfied with this arrangement. I receive very few flea bites at work, and these days I only put one layer of toilet paper on the seat – quite a step forward for a sufferer of mild obsessive compulsive disorder. But then, well…

YOU THREW OUT MY WATER BOTTLE.

I’m dead against capital letters unless they’re at the beginning of a sentence or a pronoun, so yes, I was actually yelling at you there. I never yell at people, not even in letters like this when I know they can’t hit me in the head. I’m making an exception this time, and not just because our shifts don’t overlap. Seriously, why now? That bottle has been on my desk for months, in the same position too – wedged between my perpetually empty in-tray and my well worn copies of Mentally Unstable Firearm Lover’s Monthly. Okay, that’s a lie, I don’t really like guns. But it has been in the same spot on my desk for quite a while.

I like to consider myself as being somewhat eco-friendly. Not very, mind you – I think air travel is great, and I adore steak. Also, hardcore environmentalists appeal to me about as much as members of the BNP. They’re both inflexible extremists, it’s just that some of them like tofu and electric cars, and the others like people going back to where they came from. Anyway, the point is that I hardly ever buy bottled water. I read somewhere that it takes about three bottles of water to produce one bottle of water. Obscene, I’m sure you’ll agree. So when I do buy a bottle, I keep it for as long as possible, generally until it starts to smell a bit funny and degrade to the point where bits of stuff are floating in the water every time I refill it.

I love water. It quenches thirsts, partly prevents hangovers if you drink enough of it, and it’s one of the essential ingredients in a wet t-shirt competition. Most of the planet is covered by water, and maybe more if those bloody inconsiderate steak lovers and air travel enthusiasts keep it up. Apart from a few bones and some arguably vital organs, humans are more or less made entirely of water too. You can do without steak for almost a fortnight, but deny a man water and he’ll last about as long as a ceasefire in the Gaza Strip.

The editor told me not to bother writing this letter to you. He said, “Eoinín, chances are this janitor chap is nothing more than an uncouth, illiterate, Fosters-sodden Australian backpacker, vacuuming and shagging his way around Europe, earning just enough of a pittance to fund his next Contiki tour binge drinking session, leaving nothing more than defiled fountains and syphilis-ridden Essex girls in his uncultured wake. Oh, and your water bottle.” I wasn’t deterred, though. I was still confident that I could connect with you on a human level, even if you were Australian. I knew that even if water wasn’t as important to you as say, koala steaks (which I’ve heard are delicious and I would love to try), you would respect my love of two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen, all parts delicious.

So as you can see, I have brought in a new water bottle. It is just to the left of this carefully written plea for professional restraint and mutual respect. You don’t need to clean it. You need not do anything with it or to it. Just let it be what it is – a thoroughly effective vessel for the transportation of water from the tap to my stomach. If, however, you choose to ignore my heartfelt plea and violently hurl it into the bin while cackling evilly to yourself, well…let’s be honest, I’m too afraid of confrontation to do anything other than write another letter. But I’ll be pretty pissed off. So just leave it alone, okay?

Yours sincerely,


Eoinín McAlpine

Hot Hits With Hans # 4

Written with a glow stick by Hans Öffmeinbürger

Oh, hallo meine liebevollen ventilatoren! Well, what an exciting musical week it has been, don’t you think? So many amazing things happened, but all of them were overshadowed by the release of the highly anticipated The Beatles (Remastered) 2009, a long overdue compilation of Beatles songs that were previously available only in pretty much every single record shop in the world. But this is different, because this release comes in a box and the recordings have been delicately tweaked by expert sound engineers, so delicately in fact that only a dog could hear the difference. But it also comes in a box. Is this sounding cynical? Perhaps a little. I should admit that Hans is more of a Rolling Stones man, mainly because they have a dedication to partying that Hans can relate to. Hans can’t relate to the Beatles, apart from the bass player. I say that because I once went on a four day bender and woke up next to a very angry and evil woman with only one leg. In retrospect, it was very insensitive of me to kick her out of my house. I should have thrown her out.

Achtung, here is the rest of the music news!


WHEN A MAN LOVES A GAMING CONSOLE

Proving once again that you can get blood out of a stone by flogging a dead horse with it, Sony have released yet another instalment of the highly popular Guitar Hero brand. It is a bold move from a company that recently experienced its lowest sales of a game ever after releasing Emo Hero, in which players attempt to look as disenfranchised as possible while still playing all the correct notes to the most popular Emo music. The game was judged a failure after members of the increasingly tedious subculture claimed they were suffering from, like, depression and stuff, because their fringes made it impossible to see the screen.

There have been no such complaints from fans of the newest version – Power Ballad Hero. Pre-orders have kept those at Sony HQ busy, especially after this week’s cross promotional launch of Michael Bolton’s hit new single A Touch Too Sexual. Bolton has lent more than his vocals to the game too. The ageing balladeer had hundreds of motion sensors attached to his body and flowing tresses in order to accurately capture the intricate physical movements integral to the delivery of a power ballad. Players will not only be judged on hitting the right notes, but also making appropriate power hand gestures and pained facial expressions.

Some of the other artists featured on Power Ballad Hero are Journey, Boston, Toto and the indefatigable John Farnham. Sony, possibly while high on white board markers, have indicated that they will not rest until every genre and musical instrument has been immortalised on the small screen. Rumoured future titles include Ukulele Hero, Trombone Hero, Castanet Hero and Rock Band: Peter Andre.


CHRIS BROWN’S BOW TIE SEEKS TO DISTANCE ITSELF FROM CHRIS BROWN

If you’re having a bad year, spare a thought for beleaguered auto-tune aficionado Chris Brown. Twelve months ago, he was on top of the world. Chart-topping songs, a famous and therefore pretty girlfriend, and legions of tone-deaf fans. Fast forward to 2009, and things aren’t looking so rosy. Details are probably needless at this point, but for the hermits amongst you – Brown, suffering from a lack of exercise and food, attempted to solve both problems by exercising his fists on now ex-girlfriend Rhianna and then attempting to eat her. Brown’s agent, clearly a firm believer in the saying “any publicity is good publicity, even if it’s because you beat up a woman”, saw an opportunity for redemption (and promotion) and promptly booked Brown for an interview on the Larry King Show – in an adorable little bow tie.

Contrary to the intent of his agent, Brown’s inarticulate explanation of his misdeeds was overshadowed by the undeniable star power of his spotted clothing accessory. Within hours of his claims of temporary amnesia induced by beating a woman he doesn’t remember beating, Brown’s bow tie had graduated from innocuous neck warmer to the biggest internet sensation since, well, whatever the last big internet sensation was. The navel gazing folk at Twitter put down their mirrors for long enough to discuss Chris Brown’s bow tie at length, and so a temporary legend was born.

As it is with most overnight sensations nowadays, things have moved impossibly fast. The accessory favoured by kooky professors has already released its debut album, the auto-tune heavy and imaginatively titled Chris Brown’s Bow Tie. After receiving a Grammy nomination for the record, the bow tie has been booked to appear on The Late Show with David Letterman, started a violent feud with rival fashion accessory Kanye West’s Venetian Sunglasses, checked into the Priory due to “exhaustion” (sources suggest a possible addiction to fabric softener), released its signature fragrance Urban Butterfly, and late last night was reported as having been arrested by the LAPD after allegedly strangling and biting on again/off again partner Lily Allen’s Hoop Earrings.


CELEBRATED AVANT GARDE FOREIGN MUSICIAN LIVING IN SQUALOR

Shocking reports have emerged that hugely popular underground Cuban urban percussionist Oscar Grouchéro is living in abject poverty. Despite a sell-out tour of North America and impressive sales of his debut album Del Canal a Las Estrellas, distressing pictures surfaced this week of Grouchéro living in what is unquestionably a rubbish bin. The cutting edge ethnic musician was described by paparazzi responsible for the damaging images as “surly” and “outwardly hostile to all and sundry”.

Residents of the Havana slum in which the bin is located confirmed the troubling reports, but were quick to defend the eccentric recluse. “This man, senor Grouchéro, he is muy enojado, last week he threw some chicken bones at me just because I said buenos dias,” said Pablo Hernandez, a local man. “But I think he is a good man, he is always nice to the niños, he is teaching them to play the drums.”

Grouchéro’s flamboyant manager, former Parisian party promotion king Barry “Big Bird” Grandoiseau played down the pictures and accused the paparazzi of interfering with his artist’s creative process. “This is a load of shit,” Grandoiseau snapped at a press conference yesterday. “Oscar is an urban artist, he must stay in touch with his ghetto roots. You have these men with cameras, they interrupt a creative genius and say he is living in a trash can. What they don’t know is that it is a big trash can, and Oscar has many items of extravagance in the trash can, like a pool, and a farm, an elephant, and an interdimensional portal.”

Sport With Vort: All The Sport You Can Fit in a Sweaty Cup

Written in the bottom of the ninth with bases loaded by Vortman De Ville

My sporting calendar is as full as a candidate for gastric bypass surgery. It’s inevitable that sometimes, some events that I would normally consider compulsory viewing are overshadowed by sporting contests or controversies so enormous that they defy conventional measuring techniques, such as the De Ville Sporting Awesometer. For example, the undomesticated ballet of the Delaware Sprintcar Championships would be eclipsed only by the spectacle of OJ Simpson sacking two opponents and then leading the entire LAPD defensive line on a thrilling chase down an unforgiving, spike-strip laden, roadblock-clogged asphalt field that has more than once seen the end of a promising young athlete armed only with a dream, a stolen hatchback and a recently emptied crack pipe, all played out in front of the relentless swarm of helicopters employed by the good folk of World’s Most Fatal Killer Car Deaths.

With that in mind, it was with great sadness this week that I missed the following events: the 38th Annual Arizona Tractor Pull, the South Shropshire Cow-Tipping Qualifying Final, the North Toowoomba League of Goat Slaughtermen’s Speed Chop-off, the Micronesian Tortoise Regatta, the Canadian Curling League Championship after party, and the Damascus to Durban Camel Sprint 2009. Any real sports fan would look at that list and come to only one conclusion – that if Vortman De Ville missed events of that calibre, he must have sports news as juicy as a 10lb Philly steak, as steamy as the US women’s volleyball team communal shower, as riveting as a 300lb chain-smoking drunkard trying to bowl a 300 game, and as controversial as a room full of unconscious lingerie models, an ex-Superbowl winning quarterback, and an empty bottle of Rohypnol.

PETA FORCES ULTIMATE FIGHTING CHAMPIONSHIP GORILLA BAN

In yet another example of the athletically challenged PC brigade sticking their pale noses in the business of real people, Pussies for the Ethical Treatment of Animals have forced the Ultimate Fighting Championship to clarify their stance on competitive gorilla fighting and ban the primates from competition altogether. The 2010 championship is now in jeopardy after more than 80% of the competitors were deemed ineligible under the new rules. UFC boss Frank “Bare-knuckle” McLoughlin was uncharacteristically emotional in the wake of the changes.

“I feel pretty low,” stammered a visibly shaken McLoughlin. “You know, we bring these fighters in from all over the world, we treat ‘em right, keep them fed and watered, and they love to fight. They love it. And then you get these pansy-assed civil libertarian types tellin’ you there’s somethin’ wrong with two apes in their prime beating each other to a bloody pulp in a cage. I seen the documentaries. Fighting is part of their culture! It’s natural. I’ll tell you what ain’t natural – PETA, that’s what.”

In response to the ape embargo, a PETA spokesperson said “Blah blah blah blah organic seaweed blah blah climate change blah blah blah fossil fuels are bad because they come from dinosaurs and dinosaurs are animals blah blah blah.”


RED BULL EXTREME URBAN GAMES A HIT, TRANSIT POLICE NOT SO SURE

It had to happen. Any adrenaline junkie will tell you that there’s only so many great white sharks you can surf down the Niagara Falls before the thrill wears off and you start looking for something that will actually give you a rush. And so it was that the permanently caffeinated connoisseurs of awesomeness at Red Bull decided that BMX riders jumping through flaming hoops suspended between skyscrapers was a little bit fruity and that they should come up with something halfway exciting – the Red Bull Extreme Urban Games is it.

The ubiquitous beverage manufacturer is fast becoming the leader in the race to legitimise sports previously classed by authorities as “crimes” and “indescribably stupid”. Held in New York City, kicking off this banquet of extremocity was the 2km Sleeper Skiing event, where competitors with water skis clutched a rope attached to the back of a train and hung on for dear life. Reaching speeds of 120km/h, the daring athletes attempt to remain alive while being dragged across the unforgiving and rarely maintained railway sleepers of the New York subway system.

By far the most popular event held was the aptly named Sudden Death Train Surfing, with competitors coming from as far away as Sweden, Finland, and British prison colony Australia. Emerging victorious was Australian Bruce Blokeman, possibly a convict, who saw his fellow competitors “wipe out” on overhead electrical wires, trains travelling in the opposite direction, and other various inanimate but nonetheless deadly objects. Blokeman paid tribute to Swedish opponent Jargmen Höekstrom, who looked to have the win in the bag before being decapitated by a signal light, a la Dennis Hopper in hit Hollywood film Speed.


CRICKET BOSSES CLAIM CRICKET EXCITING, REST OF WORLD SCEPTICAL

Cricket, long held as the most boring spectator sport on earth after baseball, has launched yet another attempt to sex up its flaccid image and reputation as a quasi sport favoured by the tea-swilling English aristocracy. After identifying the highly profitable emerging market of chronic sufferers of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, the International Cricket Board launched the 20/20 League, a form of cricket where each player is given 20 seconds to hit and throw as many balls as possible at the opposing side. However, wary of the notorious fickleness of the ADHD demographic, cricket bosses promised to slash yet more “boring crap” from the competition.

Enter cricket’s newest incarnation – Super Happy Exciting Explosive Cricket OK! SHEECOK is the brainchild of Japanese game show king Noriyami Nomura, the man responsible for such television hits as Poisonous Electric Scorpion Pit Challenge Game, Richard Gere Quote Or Lava Pit!, and the hilarious So You Think You Can Dance With A Siberian Tiger? Nomura has promised to amalgamate the traditional stoicism of cricket with the instantly gratifying thrills of Japanese game show culture.

Players on each team will be kitted out in florescent lycra uniforms with neon headbands, whilst the umpires will be replaced with ill-tempered grizzly bears that have been starved for a month and forced to watch computer simulations of men savagely beating bears with cricket bats. Each player will also have a small explosive charge attached to his groin that will detonate if he remains stationery for longer than ten seconds. Any players surviving beyond ten minutes will be subjected to a pair of converted ex-military helicopter gunships firing cyanide-soaked cricket balls at them.