What does the average bloke do if his significant other has gone out for the morning, and he finds himself alone in the house with a few hours to kill? In my experience, he will usually occupy himself by rifling through her underwear drawer, and probably end up making a mess all over the place which he won’t have the wits or ability to clear up properly and will therefore blame on some improbable accident involving copydex, or some other light adhesive.
Well Steven Milligan might have been a well known political commentator who had worked for Radio 4, The Economist, and the Sunday Times, and had recently become the Tory MP for Eastleigh in Hampshire, but he was no different to the rest of them. The filthy so and so.
On the morning of February 7th 1994′ Stephen’s girlfriend, Julie, had gone out. Maybe to launder some parliamentary expenses mony, who knows? But the minute she walked out of the door, he was stripped naked and trying on a pair of her stockings and suspenders. For most blokes, that would probably have been enough, they would have done what they had to do, got dressed again, and put the ruddy television on or something. But not Stephen. He had to take things that little bit further, so he tied some electrical cable around his neck and down to his ankles, stood on a wobbly table, shoved an orange in his mouth, put a bin liner over his head, and started fiddling with himself. Unfortunately, at some point in all this shenanigans, he choked to ruddy death. All I can say is, it takes all kinds to make a world doesn’t it!
It was a bit of a problem for the prime minister though. He had been rattling on about “back to basics” “morality” and “family values” for a while at that point, and ever since he had started on such themes, his ministers and MPs had done little else but get caught behaving in ways that made them look like such values were the last things on their mind. If they weren’t being caught with their trousers down with other people’s wives, or rent boys, or whatever, they were taking bribes to influence their parliamentary dealings. Even Major himself had been mucking about with that egg woman, although nobody knew about that at the time. Still all that was almost understandable to many people. But not choking yourself to death in stockings and suspenders whilst bashing your ruddy bishop.
Apparently they called it Auto Erotic Axminsteration, and it had been popular amongst Tory Politicians since the days of William Pitt the Younger, but they had managed to keep the details out of the papers until then. But everyone knew about it after Stephen Milligan, and ever since then, all new leaders of the Tory party have had to swear a solemn oath that they won’t ever try it. Of course, this doesn’t mean that they are not ruddy filthy so and so’s. They don’t have to make any promises about Paraphilic Infantilism, Coprophilia or Pony Play. If they did, The Lord alone knows who they would have left to lead the party. They would probably have to bite the bullet and go for a woman again.
Jeanine was better known as “The Singing Nun” or “Sister Smile.” She was a Belgian lass, she was really a nun, and she had an international pop hit when she was 30 in 1963 with a happy sounding song called “Dominique.”
Imagine that! A ruddy nun in the hit parade, and it wasn’t Julie Andrews! She was a proper Catholic Nun who believed (as they do) that she was married to Jesus.
She got really famous really quickly and toured the ruddy world, doing concerts and going on the television all over the place. The famous actress, Debbie Reynolds out of “Debbie Does Dallas” even portrayed her in one of them Hollywood Movies.
But at the heart of her story was a tragedy. She was one of them Lesbians. Not that I’ve got anything against lesbians you understand. As far as I’m concerned, good luck to them. If you are a lesbian you are much less likely to end up living with a useless lump like my Raymond, and that can’t be a bad thing. I would have been one myself, but I just couldn’t develop those sort of feelings. I would have rather stroked my Hairy Mary than got that friendly with another woman. Come to think of it, by the time I got my Hairy Mary, I would much rather have stroked her than got that friendly with my Raymond. She was a lovely little Doggie. I was ruddy apoplectic when he went and trod on her getting out of bed that morning. I never had another companion like her until after he had died and I got Madamoiselle Tuppence.
Any road it was bad enough being a pop star when you was a Catholic Nun. Never mind if you found out you were a lesbian an’all. So she had to leave the Nunnery.
The trouble was that she had given all her pop music money to the other nuns. Probably so they could mend the nunnery roof, or buy some new wimples or something. So she was skint.
The further trouble was that the Belgian Government didn’t believe her, and decided that she owed them thousands and thousands of Belgian pounds in tax. And they got increasingly grumpy with her when she couldn’t pay up.
It wasn’t as if she was living in luxury either. Her and her girlfriend were just about making ends meet, and seeing as they were still religious and kind hearted, they were trying to run a school for autistic children an’all. They had hearts of gold.
But the government weren’t having any nonsense. It looked like they would be declared bankrupt and have to become paupers for the rest of their days. Even releasing a disco version of “Dominique” didn’t help. She was yesterday’s news, and no one wants to pay good money for a disco version of yesterday’s news. So her and her girlfriend took an overdose of tablets and topped themselves.
Very sad. Religious rules and over zealous tax collectors. Fortunately, Jeanine and her girlfriend are very happy here on the other side. They play concerts together and sing lots of new songs, as well as Dominique. Not that either of them would advise anyone to top themselves though. They even think that things might have turned out a lot better for them in the realm of the living if they hadn’t. Depression is a terrible thing. But most people manage to get through it with help. And people aren’t quite as horrible to lesbians as they used to be. Or Catholics. Most of the time.