Is there anybody there?

"Reports that say that something hasn't happened are always interesting to me, because as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns -- the ones we don't know we don't know."
Donald Rumsfeld, chief chicken hawk and war criminal extraordinaire.

The world is a mysterious place, from the silent stone faces of Easter island to the careful precision of the Giza plateau mysterious mysteries abound.
Who among us does not have some strange tale to impart? For when the whole history and purpose of your species is a mystery one will obviously be attracted towards life's many "unknown unknowns"

It was in this spirit of adventure that News direct tasked me with solving one of life's greatest mysteries, the mystery of life after death!!!!!!
Careful research on the subject had led me unfailingly towards the bizarre practice of spiritualism, a Christian sect which became popular in the late 1840's using the writings of 17th century Swedish mystic Emanuel Swedenborg as the basis for a new variation on the ancient Jesus death cult.

Adherents to this new form of Christianity believed that by using a human conduit one could contact the world of the dead and receive messages and blessings from long dead loved ones and ascended spirit masters.
All over the western world spiritualist churches sprang into existence and lured the local populace into virtuous orgies of spiritual communication and relentless voluntary payments. But the craze was not just confined to the new back alley temples of the dead, no dinner party featuring the great and the good of society was complete without an after dinner cigar and a quick seance.
By the late 1920's the wild fire craze of spiritualism had all but burned itself out, but here in the north of England pockets of this craze survived through into the present day and evolved into the modern day phenomenon of the celebrity medium.

To learn more about the work of these modern day necromancers I arranged to meet Paul De la Higginbotham professional medium and the star of channel five's big new Wednesday afternoon hit "The dead say the funniest things!"
The meeting was to be at Paul's newly renovated large Victorian home on the outskirts of Halifax and as I walked up the long tree lined drive past Paul's brand new collection of high performance cars I couldn't help but feel a shiver of nervous anticipation and slight nervousness that he may have a spirit tell him private stuff about "what I like" in a "bedroom sense"

I reached the end of the long gravel path stood before his huge oak and stained glass door and tried to bury at the back of my head "what I like"
I pulled the long wrought iron chain by the door and from inside I heard the chimed consequence, moments later the door creaked open to reveal the blonde highlighted, pink suited Paul De La Higginbotham.
"Ohhh hello love, you must be the dreamboat from that Newsly direction thingimy bob interwebby jobby?"
"That's right, Peter Stock Aitken Waterman.
"Well don't stand out there in the cold Peter, come in!"
I wiped imaginary dirt from my shoes and squeezed tightly past my host who was politely holding the door open for me.
"Oops! Room for a small one!" He screeched as I made my entrance into a fabric bedecked hallway that closely resembled the set from some yet as unmade harem film.
"Just go on through into that room there on your right, yes that one. No dear the right."
Momentarily lost by my need to keep the secret of "What I like" secret I had forgotten which was left and which was right. Paul closed the heavy door and before the fabrics strewn across the hall could settle down he was behind me cupping a bottom cheek and steering me towards the room he had originally told me to enter.
"Ohh that's like a little rock cake."
I swerved my hips to remove his hand from my "little rock cake" and rushed into the room, waited until Paul took his seat and then sat as far away as possible from him and carried on working on hiding the secret of "What I like"

The room seemed to be a continuation of the harem theme I had encountered in the hallway. I gestured at the room with a nod of my head and said "Nice, you decorate it yourself?"
"Yes, decorating is one of my little hobbies"
"You're very good, I haven't seen this much purple velvet since I saw Barry White live."
"I wanted to create a environment my clients would feel comfortable in."
"Zebra skin can be very reassuring."
"Yes."
"So Mr De La Higginbotham..."
"Oh please call me Paul, you're not my bank manager."
"No I'm a reporter." I said puzzled.
"What dear? No you misunderstand me all I was saying was there is no need for the formality, we are all friends here sweetie."
I concentrated harder on hiding the secret of "What I like" and nodded at him. He smiled a sympathetic smile and we sat for a while in silence as I struggled and grimaced trying to bury the secret of "What I like"
He folded his delicately manicured hands across his already folded knee and ventured "So Peter my love, do you want to start this interview now?"
I uncrossed my eyes, shook my head, checked the secret of "What I like" was still buried and asked "Are oranges really not the only fruit?"
He looked somewhat taken aback and managed "Pardon?"
I cleared my head and then my throat "What?"
"What do you mean?"
"What?"
"You asked me if oranges aren't really the only fruit."
"Did I?"
"Yes you did lovey."
I shook the puzzlement from my face "Well I didn't mean to say that out loud, what I meant to ask you was how do you go about contacting the dead."
He made a visual effort to forget my verbal faux pas and said "Well ever since I was ten years old I have had an old Indian spirit guide who has become my channel to the other world and taught me the ways of the dead."
"He speaks English?"
"Yes."
"Do you find it hard to understand his accent? Mr Patel who runs my local corner shop has a very thick accent some mornings I just nod at whatever he says, actually thats why I have a five year subscription to dog care monthly, the professional dog groomers trade magazine. I don't even own a dog."
"No you misunderstand me lovey, he is a native American, not an Indian."
"Oh ok, whats his name?"
"Squatting beaver."
I laughed.
"What?"
"Squatting beaver!!!"
"Yeah, that's his name it's a very old traditional name for native American healers."
"You sure he isn't taking the piss?"
"I don't think so why?"
"Well beaver! Squatting beaver!"
"And?"
"Well beaver is a euphemism for.....you know."
He looked as blank as a new blackboard "No, what?"
"You know....lady parts."
He pursed is thin lips "Well I can assure you I know absolutely nothing about those!"
I nodded sympathetically in agreement with him "Yeah I suppose you don't."

At this point I felt I was losing him so I employed the old interviewers trick of pretending I was actually interested in what he had to say and asked "So this Indian fellow, crouching pussy, does he sort of line the dead up in queues and sort them out for you?"
"It's Squatting beaver!"
"Oh yeah sorry, I have a lot on my mind." I checked the secret of "What I like" was still safe and asked "So is he sort of like a feather strewn dead secretary?"
"No he isn't! And I would ask you to show an appropriate level of respect to a great teacher and healer or I'm afraid I will have to ask you to leave!"
My trick hadn't worked as well as I'd hoped so I used the trick that works very well with angry women "I'm sorry please forgive me I have been an idiot, you are of course right."
His eyes softened "Ok but I would ask you please to show more respect for me and my spirit guide."
I became a picture of contrition "I'm sorry I honestly meant no offence to you or Crouching....."
His eyes narrowed into slit of suspicion, I verbally checked myself and after a quick check of the secret of "What I like" I continued "......Squatting beaver, It's just I'm new to all this and I'm always uncomfortable round minorities, I don't want to commit a racial faux pas and upset Mr Beaver."
He looked at me unconvinced "Squatting beaver isn't actually here right now."
"Oh where is he?"
"He is in the spirit world."
"The new off licence near the McDonalds on Equator street?
"No! THE spirit world!!! The place where all our souls go post mortem."
"Post what?"
"Post mortem!!!!!!"
"Third class post?"
"AFTER DEATH!!!!!!"
"Oh."

He placed a pale hand across his red brow "I think I have a migraine coming on."
I needed to get him back on my side quickly "Isn't cro....Squatting beaver a healer? Why don't you summon him up and we can kill two birds with one stone, I can get a look at how you do....whatever...it is....you ....sort of....do and while he is here he can have a go at your migraine."
He fluttered his eyes "Very well, I shall summon him from beyond the darkened veils of time and bid him to come forth into this veil of tears and so enlighten our mortal darkness with the brilliant light of his age old wisdom."
"And bring his "spirit pills" for your migraine don't forget that....you don't want him getting here and then having to go all the way back because he forget his migraine medicine.
Paul had closed his eyes and was now gently swaying side to side while letting out a low pitched "OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.......OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"
I watched his performance open mouthed, checked the secret of "What I like" was safely tucked away and said "Blimey!"
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO......OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, OWWWWWWWWWWW....OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW"
"Blimey he's changed tone now!"
"OOOOOOOO.....Is there anybody there???? OOOOOOWWWWWWW"
I looked around "Yeah me, I'm here!"
"OOOOOOOO...Is there anybody there??? Knock twice for yes......once for no...OOOOOWWW"
I looked around me again, shrugged and knocked twice on the wall. Paul squinted open one eye and hissed "Not you you idiot! I'm trying to contact the other side!"
"Oh Sorry."
"OOOOOOOOOOO...Reveal yourself to me oh great Squatting beaver!!!! Use me as your channel into this world!!! Make me your spirit bitch!!!!!!!!!OWWWWWW"
As these last words dropped from his spittle flecked lips a strange calmness descended onto his face and a disquieting stillness filled his body. I looked around me, leaned forward and poked his knee "Paul? Paul?"
Paul placed a steady hand on each knee and in a strong manly voice quite unlike his own said "Paul is not here now."
"Who are you? The answering machine?"
"I am Squatting beaver, medicine man of the Lakota and fellow traveler of the great spirit bear."
"Oh right...errr.....cold out.....said on the news we might have snow."
The spirit Indian inhabiting Paul sat silently unmoved by my attempts at small talk. I decided to play along and question the Indian, after first checking that the secret of "What I like" was quite safe.
I put on my thinking face and after a few moments I said "So......Crouchi...errrr Mr beaver, How's the ..errr spirit world?"
Paul's beaver filled face didn't flinch and his lips hardly moved as he said "The spirit world never changes it is the one constant in this universe of eternal flux."
"Oh.....get out much?"
"What is your question for me."
"Oh I didn't really have one."
Paul sat impassively silent so I searched my memory banks for the eternal questions that plague man "Can Arsenal win the title this year?"
"This question that you ask can only be answered in the negative, to win this title you speak of they must first acquire a man who will stand firm and be as a wall against the tides of the sea."
"A defensive midfielder? That's a tenner wasted then, I knew 16 to 1 was to good to be true."
Squatting beaver fell silent again.
"Oh here's one, why did the chicken cross the road?"
"To get to the other side."
"Oh you've heard it."
"Yes I'm dead not daft."
"Soooooooooo....can't really think of nowt else I wanna ask you....unless you wanna give me the lotto results, do ya?"
"No."
"Thought not."
Paul's face twitched rapidly and let out a long sighed "OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"
I looked around.
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"
"Paul??"
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO...OWWWWWWWWWW"
"Paul??"
"OOOOOOO" his eyes opened slowly and as they focused weakly on the room he weakly whispered "Was he here?"
"Who?"
Paul gave me a confused look "Squatting beaver? Did he come unto this plane of existence?"
"Oh him? Yeah."
"What message from beyond the thin veil of reality did he impart to us ignorant mortals?"
"Errrr...he didn't say much really."
"What message did he impart?"
"Nowt really just said Arsenal need a defensive midfielder. which, pardon my French, is more the realm of the bleeding obvious than the mysterious realm of spiritual knowledge."
"He didn't say anything else?"
"No not really."
"Oh he usually has some deep spiritual wisdom to impart."
"Must have been having an off day."
"Yeah maybe."
"Anyhow...I think that will be all I need Paul."
"Are you sure? I could get out my crystal balls and let you rub them."
"Errrrr....not right now thanks, I have a train to catch at a quarter past."

Paul walked me through the satiny silkiness of his hall and prised open the huge door for me "Well thank you for your time Paul and please Thank Squatting beaver for me."
"Oh don't mention it lovey, the pleasure was all ours, you just make sure you tell the world that we are here to help them along life's rocky path and to bring a little comfort into their grey pain filled existences."
"Will do." I stepped over the doors threshold and into the bracing afternoon wind. I turned back to thank Paul once more and was greeted by the sight of him holding his red tense forehead in one hand and speaking as though he was on the telephone.
"Ok....yep...ok I got it ...ok thank you Squatting beaver...yes I'll tell him...thank you lovey."
He removed his hand from his forehead and opened his eyes "Squatting beaver wants me to tell you to stop doing what you are doing, it's filthy and possibly illegal, so don't do it!"
As the shock seeped from my face I whispered in a hoarse voice "I don't know... what you're talking about."
"Yes you do you filthy sod!" And with that Paul closed the mysterious door of the spirit world and left the world with one more confused soul late for an early train.

Acme brides: An expose!

Man is a simple creature, he works, he eats, he drinks, he sleeps and he has done this with a monotonous clockwork rhythm ever since the mist shrouded beginnings of recorded time.
Is it an inbuilt metronome that swings him into these daily actions? Some innate instinct passed surreptitiously down through his genes?
No.
The reason for man's seemingly natural actions is of course woman and more specifically wife.

No one knows when the institution of marriage first appeared but the earliest known references to this peculiar ritual appear in Sumerian cuneiform tablets dating from around 5000 BC, a rough translation of which gives us this tantalising glimpse of ancient marriage:

"And so the great king did say unto (Missing word)....thou have placed your arrow shaft into yon virgin's gourd, now thou must promise to doest as she tells thou and buyest all her foot wear (Missing passage)..... if thou does not do these things we will cut off your arrow and boilest thou in the oil of ten camels!"

So it seems that man has needed this mutually advantageous contract since the very beginnings of civilisation, indeed it is maybe even the very bedrock of our modern day civilisation.
Nowadays our fast paced lifestyles and isolated urban existences seem to have separated some men from the necessary contract of marriage, leaving them stranded in a sea of filth, instant noodles and internet porn.
Luckily for these poor unfortunates the marriage agency has sprung into much needed existence as an essential aid in the elimination of unwanted bachelorhood.

News direct decided the world needed to know more about these essential tools of modern love and asked me to delve into my box of undercover disguises and pretend to be a sad unlovable wretch so desperate for love that he would resort to the seedy world of the marriage agency.
I started my investigation by trawling the phone book. After F for fanny didn't turn up any promising leads, I then tried M for marriage and stumbled upon a veritable treasure trove of possible leads.
I decided to start where you're supposed to and made an appointment at a place called Acme brides, which had the intriguing motto of "If you don't get laid (for life) we don't get paid!"

Acme brides was conveniently placed atop a mini cab firm in deepest darkest south Leeds, only a discreet hand written crayon sign gave any clue that the steep unlit and uncarpeted stairs before me had been the stairway to heaven for so many of life's saddest losers and desperate geeks.
I climbed the stairs, after checking no one I knew had seen me, and came to a thin paint peeled door with another elegant crayon written sign bearing the legend:

Not the toilet!!!!
Acme brides
Stopping suicides since 1984
(Not affiliated with Acme medical supplies)

I pushed softly on the door, afraid of taking it off its rusting hinges, then pushed again harder because the frayed carpet under the door had gathered up into a foot worn conspiracy to deny me access to this temple of marital bliss.
A voice called out from behind the door "Oi!! what are you trying to do!!"
I continued to push against the flimsy door "It's stuck! I'm behind the door and want to come in and get married"
"Well don't keep bloody pushing on it! You'll have the door off!!"
I felt some give in the door and gave it one last big push and then felt myself swoon into a sort of free fall weightlessness with nothing but the door guiding my passage to the inevitable floor.
I landed hard, star fished awkwardly across the floored door.
Before me behind an untidy desk sat the astonished face of a portly,slightly purple, balding middle aged man, whom I assumed was the owner of Acme brides.
He stared down at me.
I stared apologetically up at him from the traitorous carpet "It was stuck." I nodded at the carpet "On the carpet."
He stared down at me.
"Pushed it too hard I think.......I can't feel my testicles."
He stared down at me.
"I think I may be genitally paralysed, I'm not joking, I really can't feel my testicles."
He stared down at me, his violent purple face now mellowed into a slightly less memorable shade of puce.
I gingerly lifted myself from my spread eagled position into a more comfortable on all fours doggy style, to try to lift the mood I ventured "Bet this doesn't happen often! Does it?"
He stared at me.
I now maneuvered myself onto my knees and began to vigorously rub some sort of life back into my numb testicles "I've come for a wife."
"Get off my door!"
I looked behind me, then back at him "What?"
"Get off my door!!!!!" He was now turning, cuttlefish style, back to his previous violent purple, it was strangely beautiful.
I pulled my hand from the front of my pants and slowly stood up.
"Get off my door!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"What?" I looked down "Oh yeah, sorry."
I stepped off his door, and out of politeness, I picked it up for him and took it over to where it used to be attached and leaned it against its one time neighbour, the wall.
"I'll just put it there shall I?"
He stared.
I made a face that I hoped said "Oops!, I'm such a klutz! But aren't we all sometimes!" And which I knew as soon as it had appeared on my face was more like "Ha! I have just knocked your door off it's hinges and I'm not bothered, in fact I find it hugely amusing, because I believe you to be a twat!"
He stared.

We hadn't got off to the best of starts but in a strange way I think the door accident had helped me to establish my undercover persona as a sad and bumbling bachelor desperate for love.
I pointed towards the plastic chair in front of his desk "There?"
At the sound of my voice he took his eyes from his now leaning door, skipped them off me, onto the chair and sort of grunted as he slid down into his own much more comfortable chair.
"Sorry about the door."
He shook his head, slowly wiped a hand over his face and sighed "What can I do for you Mr...?"
I smiled my best smile "Mr Hart, Johnathan Hart."
A look of puzzlement drifted quickly across his face at the sound of my name but by the grace of god and my brilliant forward planning my disguise held.
"So what can we here at Acme brides do for you...Mr Hart?"
I smiled inwardly with the intense satisfaction that another cunning persona had entered the world fully formed and ready to investigate "Well Mr..?"
"Mr Steele, Remington Steele."
I narrowed my now suspicious eyes "Well .......Mr Steele, I won't lie to you or beat around the bush, the fact is that I'm a multi millionaire businessman and I have decided that after a lifetime of cigars and scotch stained board room deals that it is finally time that I settled down and got myself some legally bound pussy." I smiled.
"Mr Hart, we are not a knocking shop, we don't do "legally bound pussy" we are a reputable bureau du amour, a resource for the time poor bachelor, a service to the community."
"Oh yes, of course I fully understand Mr Steele." I winked.

This wasn't really going how I'd hoped it would so I cleverly changed tack "How About I tell you what I'm looking for and we can go from there?"
Mr Steele sighed and nodded his agreement.
"Right what I'm looking for is something with very large breasts." I clawed my hands in front of my chest to give him some indication of an acceptable size."
He shook his head slowly as I carried on "an even temper and an O level in cookery if possible......but obviously the last two requirements aren't compulsory, but I will not negotiate on breast size!"
"Mr Hart."
"Yes?"
"Get out of my office."
"Pardon?"
"You heard me, get out of my office."
"But I want legal love!!!!"
He stood up and pointed at the open space where his door used to be "Out!"
"Just gimme one of your fat ones then!! I'm not fussy!!!"
He then unexpectedly lunged at me across his paper strewn desk and I quickly decided my impenetrable cover as Johnathan Hart multi millionaire industrialist had been blown and he now suspected I was Britain's top investigative reporter.

I made quickly for the stairs and took all thirty two of them in four giant strides, and before Mr Steele could even reach the bottom stair I was off and away down the crowded high street like a investigative cheetah on amphetamines.
Sometimes undercover work is a dirty and dangerous business, but if it helps bring the stories that matter to the people that matter (That's you) I'm willing to do it.

Mein kampf

In May 1945 after six long years of total war the Allies eventually struggled into the jagged ruins of Berlin thereby bringing to an end one of the most shameful periods in the whole history of humanity.
Countless centuries of European culture lay destroyed, Forty million people were to never breath again, death camps, disease and degradation abounded on a scale almost unimaginable to us today.
For most of us we look back on this catastrophic period and thank god we weren't alive and that our grandfathers were.

Common sense would lead one to assume that the foul stench of Nazism died along with it's badly mustachioed leader somewhere under the bomb ravaged strasses of Berlin.
But common sense, as we all know, is sadly lacking in the world and the reptilian head of Nazism is once again rearing its ugly head.

News direct decided to investigate this growing political trend by visiting the newly opened offices of Seig heil tours, a newly formed travel company that specializes in holidays for Nazis.
To see if we could shed some light on this puzzling new trend for fascist nostalgia.

I traveled up to the dirty terraced streets of Wigan to speak to Dave Goebbels the owner of Seig heil tours limited to try to get an angle on just what it is he offers to the modern adherents of National socialism.
The offices were tucked away in a dingy backstreet, the only access up to the main office was through the street door and up a badly lit narrow staircase which led to a nondescript door that bore a plaque saying SH tours Ltd.
I knocked.
"Enter!" The harshness of the voice shocked me and quite inexplicably I knocked again only this time much harder.
"Come in!!"
I braced myself for the coming confrontation and slowly opened the creaking door, It swung open to reveal a tiny, barely equipped office containing not much more than a large desk, a computer, a filing cabinet, a huge red swastika flag and the man I had come to meet.
The sight of Dave Goebbels was almost as shocking as being confronted by the sight of the swastika flag, he was a very small man and if one wanted to be unkind you could almost describe him as stunted or wickedly, a dwarf.
"Well don't stand there letting all the heat out! Come in!"
I continued to stare, mentally trying to match the authoritarian voice to the tiny stature before me.
"Are you just going to stand there?"
I glanced around me nervously "No."
"Are you going to come in?"
"Yeah."
"Today?"
"Yeah."
I looked, as surreptitiously as possible, under his desk and was astonished to see his legs hanging childlike from his chair in a failed attempt to reach the floor.
Mr Goebbels pointed one of his tiny chipolata type fingers at the chair opposite his commanding man size desk.
He stared.
I stared.
He stared.
I blinked and looked nervously around me and tried in vain not to sneak a look at his toy legs dangling from his chair.
Mr Goebbels smoothed down his almost non existent hair "I'll tell you right off the bat Mr...."
I glanced down at his impossibly short legs again.
"Mr??"
"Oh sorry It's Mr Goldber....."
His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward in his chair.
I verbally checked back on myself "Mr Goldber.....ling....ton."
His eyes achieved the impossible and narrowed even further "Goldberlington?"
I chewed my lip.
"What kind of name is that?"
"It's a surname."
"Yes I realise that but where's it from?"
"From my mum and dad."
"I realise that Mr....Goldber...ling..ton, but what I'm asking you is where does your name originate from?"
I tried to hold his unforgiving gaze "Errr...not sure really, I think it might be Welsh."
"It don't sound very welsh."
"Doesn't it?"
"No it doesn't."
"Oh well."
"I think your name isn't Goldberlington at all."
I made a face that suggested outrage "How dare you!"
"I think your names Goldberg."
"It's not."
"Are you sure?"
"I think I know my own name."

I fidgeted in my seat as Mr Goebbels ran his beady eyes over my nervous visage.
"Do you want this interview?"
"Yeah."
"How much?
"Loads."
He leaned back into his over large chair "Right drop your pants then."
"Pardon?"
"Drop your pants."
"Look I like you and all that but I'm not a gayasexual or anything, not that there's anything wrong with that sort of thing. I suppose it's hard to attract women when you are quite...you know... like you areeee...you're quite shor..."
"Idiot! I just want to see your Aryan foreskin."
"I don't have a hairy 'un, I'm totally shaved."
"Aryan!! Not hairy 'un!
"Oh right, I thought you meant hairy....."
"Just drop your pants!"
"But you'll see my thing!"
"That's the idea!"

I stood slowly and started to undo my trousers "Don't look."
"I can assure that I take as much pleasure from this as you do."
I let my trousers and slightly stained underwear fall to the floor, turned my head in shame and let Mr Goebbels look at my best friend.
He leaned forward in his seat, shook his head and then retrieved a pair of thick spectacles from his desk drawer and then leaned further forward, I think to take in the full majesty of the sight before him.
"It's quite small isn't it."
"Says you!"
"Alright pull them up Mr Goldberlington, I am satisfied. With a penis like that you can't be anything other than Welsh."
I gathered my pants from the floor and hastily pulled them up.
"Right now we have the question of race out of the way we can start the interview."
Red faced I searched in my bag for my notebook "Soooo....Mr Goebbels, Very interesting name Dave Goebbels."
"Yeah it wasn't my original name I changed it by deed poll."
"Oh right, I thought so, what was your original name?
"Barry Goebbels."
"Oh....right."
"So Dave..."
"Mr Goebbels."
"What?"
"You will address me as Mr Goebbels.
"But you've seen my penis."
"Exactly!"
"Oh ok, I just thought that now we were on more intimate terms that...but no, no you're right let's keep this on a professional footing. If we wanted to take it further later...but no we probably don't..... do we?"
"No we don't."
"Yeah best to keep things all above board and ship shape, don't mix work and pleasure."

A silence had now entered the room and like a fat uninvited guest it sat heavily between us.
I looked around the room hoping Mr Goebbels would speak, he didn't so I did "Nice flag."
"That was the flag that flew from the roof of the Reich's chancellery in Berlin."
"I like red."
"Oh."
The fat guest was back and we sat uncomfortably for a while each silently reliving the last ten minutes.
"So are we going to do this interview or what?"
"Yeah unless you want to show me yours....probably don't....do you?.......no probably not."
"Why would I want to show you mine?"
"Well so I could check you have a hairy 'un."
"AYRAN!!!! I was checking you were an Aryan!!!!!"
"Well what if I wanted to make sure you were an 'Aryan' too."
"I'M NAZI!!!!!!!!"
"Well you are quite unpleasant sometimes but I wouldn't call you nasty."
"NAZI!!!! I'm a national socialist!!!"
"Oh right I thought you said nasty."
"NO!!!!!"
"Alright you don't have to shout!"
"I'M NOT SHOUTING!!!!!"
"You are, and after everything we have shared together. I feel...oh I don't know, a little bit let down."
The vein in Mr Goebbels's temple had started to throb alarmingly "Shall we just get on and do this interview?"
"Fine."
"Is that ok with you?"
"Yeah, whatever."
"Good, shall we start then?"
"Yeah."
"Ok Mr Goldberlington, I'm ready when you are."
"What? I thought you didn't want to show me your hairy 'un."
"I'M READY FOR THE INTERVIEW!!!!!"
"Oh right I thought you wanted to....nevermind."
Mr Goebbels sat back exhausted into his chair and began massaging the throbbing vein in his temple.

"So Dav.....Mr Goebbels, what exactly are Nazis?"
"The Nazi party or the.....Whats wrong with you now?"
I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye and sniffled "Nothing."
He shook his head "Where was I? Oh yes the Nazi party or the NSDAP....are you crying?"
I sniffled "No, go on."
Mr Goebbels shook his head "Anyway they were founded in the early...you are crying."
"No I'm not."
"Why are you crying?"
"I'm not crying alright!! Just get on with it!!!"
"Well They were founded....."
"I can't do this."
"What?"
"Don't...please don't."
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh that's right play dumb."
"What?"
"I was right about you the first time, you are nasty. After everything we had together you just treat it like it never happened."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"Yeah fine be like that, but just remember this! It was you who started 'our thing' I just came here to do an interview I didn't know I would get emotionally involved. How do you think it makes me feel when you pretend that what we had together never happened? How do you think that makes me feel? Course you don't think cos you're selfish!! You have just used me and thrown me away like a spunky old tissue!"

Mr Goebbels sat open mouthed and stared at me with what I can only describe as amazement.
I stood up "I can't do this anymore, I just can't."
His mouth moved but no words fell from it.
"Typical!" I flounced towards the door.
Mr Goebbels murmured "But the interview."
I reached the door put my hand on my hip and said "You can shove your interview right up your hairy 'un, you nasty Nazi!" I then clicked my fingers and left his office with the loudest slam his door could make.

This interview was conducted on behalf of Bloggers unite for Amnesty international.
You can support the work of Amnesty international by making a donation here
http://www.amnesty.org/en/donate
Thank you.

Notorious Nazi war criminal spotted in Brazil?

Sao paulo- From the beaches of Rio De Janeiro to the depths of the impenetrable Amazon basin the whole of Brazil, and indeed South America, seems to be talking about the latest unconfirmed sightings of the infamous Nazi war criminal Dr Ernst Shitclitz.

Dr Shitclitz, now believed to be in his nineties, was apparently spotted by an undercover team of Mossad agents in the small provincial town of Vasco De Gama, in north eastern Brazil, late thursday night.

Dr Shitclitz, Father of Hitler's war time ladyboy plan and founder of Argentina's post war network of secret bitch camps, was reportedly looking in good health and was said to be chatting amiably to regulars in a small German bar frequented by ex pats known as "Die Berchtesgaden bier kellar"

The secret Israeli team tracking Shitclitz believed they had found their man and were about to make an arrest, when a friend of the "fugitive" spotted the ornate Yarmulke sported by one of the undercover team and alerted Nazi Germany's most fiendish genius to their presence.

In the confusion and turmoil that followed the man believed to be Dr Ernst Shitclitz grabbed his nearby zimmer frame and slipped quickly out the back door of the bar.

Locals in the small close knit community are reluctant to talk about the man they have come to know as "Dr Joao Puta" and all requests for interviews by the press have been refused.

One local man who only would talk under the condition of anonymity told me "Dr Puta has lived here for a long time probably since the late sixties. He is a well respected doctor and was well known for giving free treatment to the poor. There are many shemales here in town who could never have afforded the price of breasts, but he treated all who came to him, thats why I cant believe such a good man is this war criminal you speak of."

The Israeli's certainly believe they have the right man and have already applied to the Brazilian government for an extradition order in the name of Dr Joao Puta.

Many in Vasco De Gama still refuse to believe that the saintly Dr Joao Puta is the infamous Nazi doctor and claim his Teutonic sounding accent is simply a terrible speech impediment he acquired as a younger man while saving kittens from a local river for a group of handicapped children.

So until the saintly Dr Puta is found and possibly tried the world will still have to wait to learn just what did become of the mysterious Dr Ernst Shitclitz.

Swastika slave girls in Argentina's no escape brothel camps

Buenos Aries- The proud Argentine nation may be best known for the Tango, Evita, beef and cheating soccer midgets.
But deep underneath the garish azure skies and various Nazi Juntas lies possibly the darkest secret of all.

Newly declassified documents from the capital's Archivos documentales muy secretos have revealed the existence of a network of super secret Nazi brothel camps. The camps known as "Campos de la putas" were frequented by the armed forces top brass and even members of Argentina's 750 post war governments.

The horrific sex camps were established sometime after 1945 and scattered across the nations vast pampas grass lands.
The "Bitch camps" were filled with female opponents of Juan peron's "Sunshine and beef" fascism and staffed by members of Argentina's elite Tango del muerte commando unit.

Female prisoners were made to wear regulation lingerie and fed only on oysters and secret sex vitamins manufactured by the infamous Nazi war criminal Dr Ernst Shitclitz (who had been living in Argentina since 1951 under the name Juan puta.)

The existence of these camps was highly classified and admittance restricted to members of the ruling juntas and visiting dignitaries.
Once such visiting dignitary, Henry Kissinger, was so impressed by the camps that on his return to Washington he urged the then President, Richard Nixon, to to establish American versions.
Though the American versions were never built largely due to the Watergate debacle; the idea did live on and was successfully adapted by Halliburton in war torn Bosnia.

The Argentine camps continued to function as depositories of VIP sperm until well into the eighties when Argentina's smallest bitch camp was liberated by British troops after the fall of Port Stanley during the Falklands crisis.
British commanders were so shocked and turned on by conditions in the liberated bitch camp that to this day soldiers who witnessed the utter sexiness of the camp steadfastly refuse to fully reveal the horrific details of the south Atlantic's dirtiest secret.

Hitler's ladyboys

Berlin - When the old eastern bloc finally crumbled in upon it's own decaying Stalinist foundations; it wasn't only hordes of badly dressed east Germans that flocked into the gaudy neon strasses of west Berlin; following closely behind the mulleted flood was the immense secret archives of the GDR.

It's a well known fact in the west that the east German security apparatus was a ruthlessly efficient monitor of everyday life and that even the most trivial phone call was recorded and classified for use against anyone with a dissenting view or a new pair of Levis. In fact: the Stasi operated in pretty much the same way as the American intelligence agencies operate today.

But a fact that is less well known to the ordinary Hans on the strasse is that after the end of world war two, when the Allied powers split their old enemy into easily digestible slices, the vast secret records of the defeated Gestapo fell silently into the hands of their Communist conquerors and there they laid quietly undisturbed for the next sixty two years gathering dust in the huge grey staatsarchiv building just off the busy Potsdammer Strasse.

It is only recently that historians have managed to trawl through the countless documents and recordings and what has come to light recently sheds new light on the dark years of Germany's National Socialist past.
One of the most astounding stories to be liberated from the dank cellars of the Staatsarchiv, concerns the amazing story of operation "Girly boy"; a secret Nazi plan intended to be the dastardly overture to the invasion of Britain.

The plan was conceived some time in early 1939 by the now infamous Treblinka camp doctor, Dr Ernst Shitclitz, the plan called for the creation of squads of devastatingly attractive transexuals to be trained in the cunning art of shemale seduction and then dropped by parachute along the heavily defended coast of southern England.

The stated aim of operation "Girly boy" was to foster sexual confusion and spread moral decadence amongst British forces protecting the nations soft southern underbelly.
Hitler personally approved the Shitclitz plan and asked to kept fully informed of all future developments concerning the operation.
The cunning scheme, however, was never to come to full fruition as the Battle of Britain ended Hitler's plan for a full scale invasion of the British mainland.

We can only now look back on Dr Shitclitz's devilish scheme with a sense of morbid curiosity and relieved gratitude that the horrific plan never materialized and vaguely wonder what other long forgotten plans lay quietly brooding within the old Staatsarchive.