Elizabeth the First was a Bloke - SHOCKER!

Early in the Spring of 1558 the aristocratic louche, Sir Michael Hucknell, murdered the aspirant princess, Elizabeth Tudor, by singing at her until she lost the will to live...

Then, donning some thick white lead make-up and some pigs bladders doubling as fronty bumps, he proceeded to act in her place for the next 45 years...

Several times that flirty bastard, The Earl of Essex, nearly happened upon the imposter as he indulged in a furtive five-knuckle shuffle in the garderobe (latrine).

However, the sharp-witted Michael was always a step ahead of the game, and survived to die of natural causes in the ye olde yeare of 1603. Of course, following the Physician's examination of the body, the Privy councillors were informed of the shocking revelation that the Queen had died of a slightly engorged clitorus. We Shackers know this to be true as we were there as witnesses. It is amazing what a different light our Time Machine has cast upon historical 'fact'!

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A Blow for Humankind!

Pictured here is right wing British politician John Redwood getting a blow-job from one of his Martian friends (note the antennae). We Shack dwellers are shocked at this revelation! How could he have sex with a horrible, cold-blooded, gimlet-eyed freak from an entirely alien species. Don't them Martians have any fucking self-respect!?

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The Man!

"... I don't believe that them leaders are giving us any good titty milk. No Dan, it's some bad shit they got us suckling on. Freakin' control is what it's all about, make no mistake about that. Say NO to the nipple of The Man, Dan!"

It did not matter to me that Dan was fast asleep with me, outside, pressed at the window of his bedroom at around two in the morning, because I know that he is with me in spirit. Over the years we grow tolerant of each other's foibles.

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Mind Squatter

This is the explorer and noted antiquarian, Canon Frockhart Pewsley-Truggil. He is currently residing in the left lobe of my brain, for he is that most insidious of presences - a mind squatter. How he got in there, or why, we simply do not know. However, following a brief conversation between the Canon and Monty, we have gleaned a few details.

Firstly, we know he tends a formal garden in my head, and is particularly proud of his topiary chicken.

A topiary chicken like what Wrong Colin has in his bonce

Secondly, Monty reports that this cranial intruder is very fond of the music of Easy Listening legend, Barry Manilow. Apparently, he has an extensive album collection, which he often relaxes to (that'll explain the headaches!).

Sultry Uncle karaoke star, Barry Manilow

Finally, the Canon occasionally takes a peep out of my left eye; looking at the modern world as I wend my way through time-space. (This latter detail, I discovered myself whilst looking into the mirror of my boudoir - quite a shock it was too!)

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Dear Muma...

Dear Muma,

Thank you very much indeed for the lovely present. I am absolutely delighted with it, and can't wait to try it out properly. I note that it is very similar to dad's old one. I have stood in front of the mirror just now with it on, and I think it looks the part. It really is a lovely cock-ring - you are the best Muma a Wrong Colin could hope for!

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The Politics of the Dog

I have been pondering the politics of dogs, and, to be honest, I am a bit confused. On the one hand they advocate a position of communal living and they are very liberal with regard to sexuality. On the other hand, however, they support hierarchy and are fiercely territorial. I have tried discussing this apparent left-right contradiction with my dog, Rags, but he just turns his head to one side, quizzically, and then licks his nuts. I remain deeply troubled by such philosophical inconsistancy (ie with regard to their politics, not Rags licking his nuts!) and will persist in questioning our canine friends about this matter whenever the opportunity presents itself...

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'Inner Keithness', by Jurgen Gavin

Jurgen Gavin, poet

As My Reader will already be aware I was first converted to the belief that everyone on this planet is actually called Keith, through the poetry of Jurgen Gavin. I know that critics have been raving about Gavin's work for many years now, and that nearly everyone is already familiar with it, but I'm still going to quote one of his works here. This one is called,

"Inner Keithness'...

One knows that one is somehow...

incomplete

One cannot place one's finger on

the reason why

One feels that something is wrong

and insincere

One worries that one is not being

true to one's self somehow

Listen then to thy fucking inner Keithness

Listen to the pure heart of Keith within

Be true to Keith

For you are Keith

And so am I...

Keith

Keith

Keith

Keith

Keith

Isn't it...

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