Undercover Newsdesk

Well, readers, what an interesting weekend I had. Operation Sword of Truth began in earnest and – I tell you what – I should have been a bloody spook. I’m a natural.

Operation Sword of Truth is the codename I have given to my plan to open my dear Mother’s eyes to the reality that Roger is a fascist maniac, like that bloke from the motor racing who goes with all the prozzies. His dad was the leader of the British Nazis and the apple never falls far from the tree, does it. Well, it did in my case because I’d never leave my wife and child and run off with the lollipop lady – who was nearly twice his age anyway – leaving my child at the mercy of all the other kids who take the piss out of him for his dad running of with the lollipop lady.

Most people look at lollipop ladies and think: "Ah, that's nice, a lollipop lady". It even sounds nice when you say it. Not me, though. I look at lollipop ladies and it's all I can do to stop myself screaming at them for being bow-legged, home-wrecking c*nts. I don't mind lollipop men, though, because I don't think many wives or mothers would run off with a lollipop man. I guess that makes me unusual because most people, if they're honest, look at lollipop men and think: "nonce".

By a bitter twist of fate, Mum ended up being the lollipop lady for a while – we had to make ends meet somehow, and she remains for me the only lollipop lady I've looked on with fondness – and the kids were so cruel to her about dad. That’s why I learned judo, at which I am a black belt, as you know, and not – as my mate Steve maintains – because watching Brian Jacks on Superstars gave me a stiffy. That’s just the kind of stupid shit Steve likes to say. And, as he well knows, I had been thinking about Jane Jarvis from school (she was the first girl to get boobs) while I was watching Superstars and Steve just happened to notice that I had a stiffy and that’s where that silly rumour began. Anyway, he told everyone at school, as if it wasn’t bad enough already, and I made it worse by saying it had nothing to do with Brian Jacks; I’d been thinking about Jane Jarvis’s new boobs. At which point her brother Ian beat me up. The humiliation continued, because Jane Jarvis let all the boys feel her boobs apart from me, and I asked really nicely. Even Ian Jarvis felt them – there was something wrong about that family. Like the Carpenters.

Sometimes I don’t know why I’m still friends with Steve. He did a lot of nasty things to me. Once when I was round his house for Sunday lunch he did a fart that smelled so bad that his Grandma threw up. He then blamed this on me and his mum took me home and told my mum that I was never going round there again with my filthy habits and no wonder my dad ran off with the lollipop lady if that was the kind of thing he had to put up with at home. Steve told everyone at school and nobody would sit near me for a whole term. Apart from Fat Alice, who was in pretty much the same boat as me; although she deserved it and I didn’t. Jesus Christ she fucking stank. Rancid. She did let me feel her boobs, though. They didn’t feel much different from the rest of her to be honest. But, when you’re that age, you take what you can get.

Anyway, I digress. Operation Sword of Truth, to bring any stragglers up to speed, involves me pretending to be a BNP/Fascist sympathiser in order to con Roger – my mother’s Nazi beau – into revealing his true colours so I can get my mum to leave him. He’s pretty sharp at keeping it hidden, I have to say. I guess you get good at keeping things hidden when you’ve got such dark secrets.

When I arrived in Lincoln, Mum said she thought we could all go for a curry in the evening. Here was my chance! “Can’t we have something British?” I said. “Why do we have to have foreign muck?” Here I smiled at Roger. Mum said: “But you love curry, dear.” And Roger said: “Actually Barry, it’s not muck, it’s got an AA Rosette and it’s listed in the top 100 restaurants of Lincoln. The city of Lincoln has become quite cosmopolitan,” he added, “which can only be a good thing.”

Christ, I thought. You’re good.

I could see that I was going to have to play a fairly long game here. Roger wasn’t about to let his gravy train be derailed that easily. So we went for a curry, although I had an omelette, which was bloody awful. I absolutely love curry, so you can see the kind of sacrifices I’m prepared to make so that Mum can be happy. Roger wolfed down his prawn dansak. He had mushroom pilau, and a peshwari nan. It looked magnificent.

I could tell that here was a match for me in every way. I even began to feel a grudging respect for him. He must detest curry, given his Griffinesque politics. It’s interesting that the word “Griffin” has two meanings, according to the Collins English Dictionary. The first is a beast with the head of an eagle and the body of a lion – ie an animal of mixed race – and the second is a person from Western Europe who moves to the Orient – ie an immigrant.

Alanis Morissette would have a field day with that. It’s way more ironic than ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife, which isn’t really ironic, it’s just a cutlery fuck-up.

As Roger and I left the restaurant (mum was inside, settling up. What kind of man is Roger, just letting the woman pay? Unbelievable) there was a woman begging, with a baby. She was clearly foreign. Roger, slick as you like, gave her a pound fifty.

There were two options open to me here. Option one was to lead with the: “There weren’t any homeless in Berlin in 1939. Whatever you think about Hitler, you can’t argue with that” line. This a bona fide racist opener, a fact I can vouch for because it was said to me by a black cab driver in London once. (I should point out for my overseas readers that the driver was white; it was the cab that was black. You don’t get a lot of black people musing on the impressive social achievements of Adolf Hitler. You don’t get a lot of black black cab drivers, either. Institutional racism is alive and well and it gets round town in a taxi.).

Option two would see me raise the problem of British homelessness. We’ve got a lot of homeless people here, and Griffin likes to say that we should look after our own, before we start giving handouts to bloody foreigners. I went with option two. Roger said: “She’s a young mother with a baby, Barry. It’s our duty to help her. How can you be so callous.”

I tried to change the subject. I said: “There’s never a bloody bin when you need one, is there. And you know why? Because of the Irish; that’s why. The litter on our streets is down to the Irish. No surrender, eh Roger?”

“There’s a bin right there, Barry.” Said Roger, pointing to a bin that I hadn’t seen. “What do you need to throw away?”

He had me here, and I had nothing to throw away. Out of desperation and in a moment of panic I said: “This watch. I’m sick of it.” And then I took off my watch and threw it in the bin. It was a lovely watch, Gill gave it to me for my birthday a few years back. But I couldn’t risk blowing my cover.

"That looked like a very expensive watch, Barry," said Roger. "Why did you throw it away?"

I said the only thing I could say:

"Bloody foreign, that's why." Roger looked me in the eye for a long time, while neither of us said anything. I thought we were about to get a breakthrough, but then Mum came out of the restaurant and we went home.

So now I’ve got to buy a new watch. Maybe when all this is over and the scales have fallen from Mum's eyes she'll be so grateful she'll buy me a really expensive one.

Peace

ND

Roger, over and out

It was Winston Churchill who famously said, "keep your friends close, but your enemies closer". Wise words indeed, and something of an irony that I will be using them to fight my own personal war on terror.

As regular readers will recall, I discovered that Mum has been hoodwinked into a relationship with a bone fide nazi, Roger Leache. Since discovering the truth about Roger, I have been trying to think of a way that I could use the information to my benefit.

When Mum, whom my love for is beyond compare, first fell for the elusive charms of Roger, I was aghast. In my haste to get Roger out of our lives, I told Mum that Roger had actually made advances in my direction.

Amazingly, Mum took his word over mine. Unbelievable really, but there you go, they say that love is blind. And, although it sickens me to the pit of my stomach, Dad did leave us both an awful long time ago, so I suppose when someone came along and bombarded her with amorous desire, it is little wonder that she was blinded by the truth, and chose his word over mine.

That said, he never actually did make any movements in my direction, but even if he had, she still would have believed him over me, and I think that's the point. It's a matter of principle. Anyway, when I discovered that Roger is a nazi using the the BNP nazi finder website. I thought to myself, "hold up Bazza boy, you're going to have to be a bit canny here." After all Mum's political views are stuck in the 1950s at best.

Indeed, much to my eternal shame, but I feel I can admit the truth here on the blog, my middle name is actually Enoch. There, I've said it, Barrington Enoch Newsdesk. I'm not proud readers, but then again, he did have a point in his infamous Rivers of Blood Speech. Immigration has been something of a headache. Not that I for one am a nazi.

In the comments section of the post where I announced that Roger is a nazi, my excellent follower (who refuses to add the follower widget) The Vegetable Assasin said: "I think whenever you're next forced to acknowledge him, instead of a terse "Hello." or "Good night" you should greet him with a spirited "ACHTUNG!" and see how he reacts. If he goose steps around the living room like Basil Fawlty on Ritalin, you've truly sussed him. If he doesn't react at all you've still sussed him because that means he's familiar with the greeting. Maybe instead of "Achtung!" you could yell "HEIL ROGER!" but then he might take it as a compliment..."

Clearly, something of a jokey suggestion readers, but you know what, sometimes playing a little curveball is the best move.

I'm off up to Lincoln this weekend and instead of being openly anti-Roger, I have decided to win his confidence by pretending to be a nazi! It's fucking genius isn't it? I'll be like a double-agent in a John Le Carre novel.

It's a long game readers, I'll win his confidence and then using one of the dictafones that I 'borrowed' off the editorial desk, I'll get him to reveal his true colours!

When Mum hears with her own ears how evil and twisted Roger is, she'll surely (jack)boot him out for good!

auf weidersen
Baz

Roger is a Nazi

I knew it, I flippin well KNEW IT! Mum's new squeeze is a bloody Nazi readers, I knew there was something about him. I just thought he was a classic Tory. But, well, I typed Mum's postcode into the Nazi finder website and a certain Mr Roger Leache turned up living at that premises.

I'm not sure whether I should laugh or cry. I knew there was something fishy about him, Mum wouldn't listen though. She never bloody does. I love that woman more than all the cans of Cobra on the planet, but OYG she has such terrible taste in men.

I've not told you about dad yet have I. He never loved me or her, but she stuck by him through thick and thin, and there was a lot more think than thick, if you catch my drift. But I knew there was something fishy about the old scroat, and he finally did one. Mum still wouldn't hear a bad word said against him, and I said a few, I can tell you that for nothing.

But, I tell you what, as little time as I did have for dad, at least he wasn't a fucking Nazi. Not like Roger bloody Leache! Ha! GOTCHA!

I have you now Leache. You walked into my trap. Well, it wasn't really my trap, it's not like I established the BNP then made Roger right-wing. I just happened to stumble across the fact that he is a member by using that clever website gadget. But still, I can't help feeling chuffed with my detective work.

The question, of course, remains. What to do? What to do? As my good friends will testify, I can be quite tempestuous. When I presented Mum with allegations that Roger was a sex-pest and had made unwelcome advances on me, she didn't believe a word of it. She probably thinks the BNP party is like the local Conservative club. In fairness, it probably is.

But she has to see him for what he is. I know Mum's no Nazi, she didn't even like war films when we were growing up. I've been thinking about it all day, and I need to find a way of revealing Roger's true colours.

When Mum finally sees through the nicely tailored suits and the highly polished shoes, when she sees through the slicked back hair and the Ford Mondeo, she'll see him for what he really is. A money grabbing Nazi hell-bent on evil.

I know he brings her happiness, but it's a false happiness. She'll be much happier without him in her life.

I feel like Van Helsing the vampire slayer!

Yours in news

Baz

Nazi hunter

Last Thursday I said I'd like to shoot Nick Griffen, dead.

I would like to use the pages of today's blog to humbly apologise to Nick. I should also apologise to the friends and family of Nick for the careless and terrible way of which I spaketh.

There is no way I would shoot Mr Griffen dead. For starters I do not own a gun, secondly I do not condone murder and third, I don't know where he lives. Or indeed who he is. I have no idea who Nick Griffen is, none whatsoever, the real man, the man inside, the man behind the mask.

In fact, none of us really know who Nick Griffen is, apart from his friends and family, even then we cannot be 100 per cent sure they know.

Nick Griffin, on the other hand, I would like to maim terribly. I won't of course, becasue a) I don't know where he lives and b) I am a coward.

I don't condone violence and I certainly don't condone vigilantism. One only has to cast one's mind back to the attacks by local morons upon the home of a pediatrician who they believed had some alterior treatments in mind for the children in his life.

However, I stumbled across the sort of website that I should imagine people who do seek vengence against people that do not know would find most useful.

It's a BNP member search facility. Simply type in your post code and the website will kick out the 30 or so members of the BNP that live closest to you.

I have to say, I found the result for my postcode a very scary eye-opener. I live in a fairly well-to-do, yet multi-cultural, part of South London. I have never, ever, seen any evidence of racism in my neighbourhood. It's like John McCartney and Stevie Wonder were thinking about my hood when the penned Ebony & Ivory lol.

I'm colourblind readers. But it's not held me back, it affects between five and eight per cent of the population. Although, here's an interesting fact, a whopping 88 per cent of people in the UK are chatagerised as 'white'. It's quite high, and way way higher than my neighbourhood. So I was shocked that when I put in my postcode to the Nazi hunter site, it threw up six people within a one mile radius who were fully paid up members of the BNP (that's 20 per cent of racists living within a mile of my place), with the other 24 under two miles.

That's pretty scary readers. Six people who I walk past everyday feel so strongly that the BNP is right that they have joined up. (Your) God only knows how many sympathisers they have.

I have to say, when I saw Nick Griffin being ripped apart by the Question Time panel, I felt extremely glad that the Beeb had aired it. I didn't feel for one second that it was a 'witch hunt'.

The man is scum and I thought that's how he came across. Only a moron would believe otherwise. Indeed, during the show a good number of people stated that the British public should be applauded because it would not stand for people like Griffin.

Sorry peeps, you're wrong, if you don't think bigotry and nationalism is alive and well, go to the link above and type in your postcode.

Like I say, I do not condone violence, but what I would suggest is that if you know any one of the people in your neighbourhood that appear on the list, ask them if they deny the holocaust like their chosen leader Griffin and if they say 'yes' tell them that Barry Newsdesk thinks they're a cunt.

Peace out

Barry