Established 2003. Now incorporating The Sudbury Hill Harrow and Wherever End Times

Thursday, October 23, 2003

All the news before it even happens

Note how the Willy was ahead of the news once again in On the Beat with D. C. Constable over two weeks ago. If it were not for this unjustified strike, we would commission D. C. Constable to give us his views on the police training racism scandal.

Management / Skeleton Staff

Wednesday, October 22, 2003

I will be away for a while. I have to catch up on some work and then I'm going to Dublin for a week. Bye for now.


Tuesday, October 21, 2003


On a show of hands, the staff decided they were not happy with C.R.A.P's empty gestures today. We need them to apologise for their actions and pay significant compensation as well. So we're walking out. Apologies to our loyal readers, but we feel we have to make a stand. It's up to the management, i.e., Red Woodward, now to ensure that our just demands are met.

The Willesden Herald Team

Yes, we have gone away actually

We note Barry Barton's statement issued this morning that he has decided it's time to move on, and call off his campaign against the so-called Willesden Herald. On behalf of the Campaign to Restore Abused Privacy we confirm that his statement accurately reflects our position. We will take steps to put our instruments of graffiti and hacking beyond use, verifiably.

P O'Toole

Why did the fictional chicken cross the road?

Because it would do the same thing, day in and day out, until it was hit by a car and exploded in a puff of feathers and blood.

To lead the sheep to a cocktail party in the church.

Magic Realism:
It's not a chicken, it's a peacock.

To fulfill the prophecy of Clucknomush.

Science Fiction:
To renew the road surface with its GM asphalt chicken shit.

To run at last into the outstretched wings of her darkly handsome capon.

That don't make no never mind.

"That's strange - let's go over and investigate..."

Historical Fiction:
Because it was scared when King Richard's horse bolted throwing the king to the ground outside the inn kept by Nell Golightly's father.

That was the nagging question at the back of Jack Waterford's mind, as his car pulled up at the scene of the incident.

Family Saga:
Uncle Pat said he knew, and cousin Eleanor was sure she knew better, but Aunt Kate had the best explanation.

There was an island in the middle of the road and the chicken was a red one, setting out to find the fabled home of the Road Island Reds.

The chicken was feeling peckish and thought she would stroll over to the other side and see if there were any tasty morsels to be had, as she knew it was still two hours before lunchtime.

Fictionalised Biography:
To escape the crowd that had gathered outside the gates waiting for their first sight of Mandela for over twenty years.

Noël Knowall

Monday, October 20, 2003

Immigrant Blues Burger

1/2lb ground beef, aka "mince" in the UK [or Quorn™. Ed.]
1/3 granny smith apple, chopped finely
blue cheese, crumbled, same volume as apple
onions, sliced
egg white
frozen garlic bread
piquante peppers, chips & salsa, rum & coke

Start cooking at 1am, after you have spent 10 hrs on a plane and 4 hrs in Immigration rotting and answering ridiculous questions about the nature of your romantic relationship and your finances. While onions are caramelizing, unprofessionally squash together beef, apple and blue cheese in a fit of unsophisticated culinary inspiration. Attempt to hold patty together with egg white, as instructed by your British companion (officially known in the "recorded landing" documents at Immigration as "boyfriend") but fail miserably. Eat/drink last items on list to compensate and kill time. Unfortunately microwave frozen garlic bread, as you cannot use more than one thing on the warehouse toaster oven/stove thingie at a time. Pile resulting mess of meat/cheese/apple onto garlic bread with ketchup, and top with burnt onions. Inhale happily, and swear it's the best burger you've ever had. which, frankly, it is.

Alura Allumeuse

(Courtesy of Revolting Hoosier Productions)


Jolly good show at puncturing the inflated snootery of these snotty epistleists. All writers should be flogged until they bloody well bleed. Every damned one of them. And the ones that write the most should be flogged the hardest. Why all those words of theirs and this snooterical attitude that the longer it is and the more often one refers to a dictionary the better it is?

Don't they realise this mortal coil is finite? Do they think we have time for all that reading instead of living. The snooteriness of them is what gets my goat. It really does. Why use thousands upon thousands upon thousands of words when one will do to sum up everything very nicely? Gosh!!

Why should shops be full with their loneliness? To walk into a bookshop is the most depressing experience available to man...worse by far than walking into a mortuary. The places stink with self-indulgence and this rotten notion that they think they have anything to say that is the slightest interest to anyone other than he or she with so much time on their hands that they haven't yet twigged that they are headed for the alimentary canals of worms and pretty bloody quickly in the overall scheme of things. What turgid tract of masturbatory ink-spilling ever told the poor demented reader anything that he or she couldn't see quite clearly for themselves by going to the window and gazing upon the street at the antics of their fellows?

When I think of them sitting at their typewriters banging out these vile and despair-inducing exhibitions of loneliness I see the darkest darkness of a man's insides seconds before it is exposed to the glare of daylight by the bus they haven't noticed approaching them. Dammit! What I want them all to understand is this, that what vacuous inanities have occurred to them could interest only those even more vacuous than themselves (yes! yes! I know! An hypothetical fantasy). This means other writers. So keep up the good work and bear with me as I explain in brief what should be done to these brown bags of soup-filled puffery. My God, if I had a pound for every.....*

Name and address supplied

Pressures on valuable space preclude me from printing the remaining 700 pages of Mr P***o's very interesting letter. Rest assured that it was interesting in a way that most things that aren't interesting are not interesting.


Fish live in pond

Here at the Willy we like to empasize the positive, as opposed to our competitors such as the mighty Brent Leader, whose recent front page headline was "Fish die in pond."

The Night Shift

It's a long way from Tipperary

Bless them all, bless them all
The long and the short and the tall
Bless Condoleezza and George Double-U
Bless Saddam Hussein and Tony Blair too

Yes we're saying goodbye to them all
The long and the short and the tall
Goodbye Bin Laden and Mullah Omar
Goodbye to Rumsfeld and jolly Jack Straw

Bless them all, bless them all
The thick and the smart and the droll
Bless Colin Powell and Wolfowitz too
Bless the Ba'ath party and New Labour fools

Yes we're saying goodbye to them all
The long and the short and the tall
Yasser Arafat, Dick Cheney, Sharon and Khameini
Here's up the lot - bless them all

Stephen Moran

* Only the word wasn't "bless", was it? I think it started with an "f". Ed.

Friday, October 17, 2003

Telegram from the Dominions

Your correspondent on the western edge of the pond is pleased to offer a few Friday thoughts. Friday thoughts are to be consumed in a much different way to those of the rest of the week's days...that is, with braggadocio and a couple of snorts on the side.

On a BBC3 jazz programme ("Jez") I heard that G. Bush officially endorsed jazz as an art form recently. this led to the memory of a news photo, viewed this week in a local rag, of G. Bush and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Thoughts drifting, as they will, I suddenly had an image of the terminator as president of those United States. Ah, the criticism.

According to the CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES, a candidate must be "a natural-born citizen." In an age of in-vitro fertilization, however, it can only be a matter of time till that article has to be reframed, so why not take the opportunity to clear the way for the Governator?*

I thought more. What is Arnold anyway? Arnold is an immigrant from an iron lung country without a Harvard or Yale ( =Oxford or Cambridge) education. He taught himself to speak English, to use his assets (his body, in the beginning) and his thirst for survival-plus to make some money. Well, why not? If more people had his energy and drive we'd all be living on Jupiter.

He created a public persona for 'the Arnold,' amassed a fortune and married a woman connected with old money (in U.S. terms) and long political traditions.

Some call Arnold, disparagingly, an actor. But Shakespeare knew these sorts of people for what they were, for their gifts and their limitations. There are two sorts of actors: the ones capable of transcending their own character and becoming, however ephemerally, someone else; and those who stamp their own personality onto every role they play. Here's our Arnold then, with a will and a character so huge that he makes every role an exploration in becoming.

His artistry, his genius, comes into play in several ways: the first is in knowing which roles to choose; the second is in convincing audiences, producers and his barber that he can carry the day; the third is about always being hungry, always remembering that you were once a stranger without food or language or means and that you are as invincible as God made us to be.

So, he is an artist of life, an actor of long experience, and I say to you that there is no reason in the world why this man cannot aspire to and win a presidential election in the future. The majority of voters in the United States believe in success stories like they believe in mother's milk and McDonalds. My only qestion is: how well does he take direction?

Baroness C.

*Your super soaraway Willy will take up this campaign, and propose Tony Blair as running mate for Arnie on a dream ticket of non-natural born candidates. A write-in campaign for next year? (Ed.)

Cursery rhymes


Maruha had a little llama
high up in the Andes.
Once it caused a local drama
ripping off her panties.

They hunted it by day and night
over peaks and plateaus,
tracking its distinctive shite
and living on tomatoes.


Twinkle, twinkle little star;
how I wonder what you are.
you're a bomblet.


Mary had a brief affair;
she dumped me for a jerk
and now I stalk her everywhere;
I've given up my work.

Fal da ree
fal da rah
with a shotgun in my pack.

I followed her to school one day;
it was against the rule.
With armalites and hand grenades
I massacred the school.

Fal da ree
fal da rah
with a shotgun in my pack.


-- Stephen Moran

Thursday, October 16, 2003


Star imagines she's eating ostriches in L.A.

I was so happy to be eating ostrich enchiladas and [drinking] banana margaritas that I bounced in my seat all night at El Coyote...

Alura Allumeuse

Your letter has been forwarded to Mona Bone-Jakon. Her expert counselling can help in breakdowns like this. (Ed.)

Wednesday, October 15, 2003

We're doomed

I was saying to the "trouble and strife" last night, one day our bed will be crushed by heavy machinery in a landfill. All of our furniture will be smashed and dumped or burned. Everyone we ever knew and all of their children will be dead. Every trace that we ever existed will have disappeared. Someday too, Paris will be vaporised together with all Parisians. The Louvre and Mona Lisa will be dust. Where the Palace of Westminster stood will be a rocky desert. There will be no such thing as houses or homes. No art, no love, no religion, no people. No Sun and no Earth. The only way for humanity to survive is to become nomads in space, sailing convoys of spaceships to the ends of the Universe, in search of places to settle and materials to build more ships.

And do you know what she said? She said, "I hope you put out the recycling."

Simon Moribund

Wednesday, October 08, 2003


To whom it may concern

I am writing to you in the hope that you will publish this letter, as I am trying to get in contact with long lost relatives. As far as I know, my Uncle emigrated from Ireland to UK in the early 1950's. His name was William Ennis and he was married to Maureen (Hunt.) They had 5 children, Maureen, Sheila, Brenda, John and Pauline, and last known address was Willesden, London. If any of your readers have any information I would be truly grateful. I can be contacted at Thank you so much.

Pamela Ridgeway

Tuesday, October 07, 2003

Legal team on standby

Our solicitors, Crapstone Bumwilley Scrotum Scrotum and Haversack, are on standby* to issue a writ if Mr Jeremy Vine persists in introducing his radio program with a phrase very similar to our motto "All the news that's unfit to print" as he did today. [Exhibit A.] We will be listening carefully to ensure that the prefix "un" is not added.

*Either young Mr Scrotum or old Mr Scrotum himself will be handling the case (an indication of the importance we attach to this matter.)

Monday, October 06, 2003

On the beat

with D. C. Constable

I want to take issue with the police spokesman on the Jeremy Vine show* on Radio 2 the other day who said that the police have not been able to do their jobs properly since the McPherson report, because of the way they have to talk to ethnic minorities. I'm here to tell you I have no problem whatsoever talking to the ethnic minority here in Brent, they are always as pleased to see me as if Concorde just flew by. A typical conversation might be:

'Wotcha Delbert, they ain't fitted you up for anything yet then?'

'No man.'

'Watch your back mate.'

'Jah know.'

They often invite me in for one of their traditional cups of tea. The aboriginal English people are not all lager louts, as depicted on TV.

D. C. Constable

Sunday, October 05, 2003

Frigg: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry

Should this be a Dazzling Light I wonder? It's certainly one of the most beautifully illustrated.


Saturday, October 04, 2003

Send your home videos to "You've Been Maimed"

(I will just ignore the graffiti.)

If you have any hilarious videos showing domestic and industrial accidents please send them to You've Been Maimed at ITV. Also free tickets for the studio recordings of the shows with Belinda Whaleblubber, are available on application.

Friday, October 03, 2003


Usually, I like to drive down to edge of the river (on the left here), swim across with waterproof box tied round my waist and walk the 2 mile long beach on the other side collecting shells and wood (to the right of picture). Then, swim back in time to catch the sunset up at the Fort and watch the fireflies flit through this incredibly magical place.


From The Eejit, September 15th.


Thursday, October 02, 2003

Our legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe:

The enemy increaseth every day;

We, at the height, are ready to decline.

There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now afloat;

And we must take the current when it serves,

Or lose our ventures.

Brutus - Act IV, Scene III, Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare


Wednesday, October 01, 2003