Tag Archives: terrorism

Islamic State of Affairs

A video recently surfaced online in which a member of Islamic State appealed for new recruits to join the organisation, not as combatants, but in some of the less celebrated sections of the organisation.

If beheading innocent people isn’t really your thing but you make a mean roulade, maybe you could answer Allah’s call as a chef? Or perhaps after years of suckling at the teat of the infidel you’ve become an electronics whizz. Why not put your heretical education to good use and enjoy an exciting career as a bomb-maker? The most eye-catching job vacancy though was that of ISIS Press Officer, a position that would surely require such a level of spin that it would make even Alastair Campbell dizzy.

It’s hard to imagine why anyone would want to avail of such an opportunity. If one were inclined to become a terrorist you’d think there must be a few insurgent groups out there that at least allow fun things like sex, alcohol and exposing your forearms in public. ISIS on the other hand don’t seem to tolerate anything of the sort, their moral code seemingly a stringent combination of North Korean subjugation, Nazi fanaticism and the moral sensibilities of the old townspeople from Footloose.

If somebody were to take the PR job, however, their first task would probably be to create an Islamic State newspaper; what maniacal group of savages bent on death and destruction can do without its very own propaganda department? Let’s imagine what that newspaper might look like in this, the very first edition of the new weekly publication The Wahhabi Times

~

– International News

A round-up of what’s happening in the corrupt wasteland of the apostate that surrounds our heavenly enclave

Elections are due to be held next year to replace the vile infidel Obama as Commander in Chief of the West’s drone war against Arab children, wedding parties, and the odd insurgent or two.

The early favourite to win the vote is Hillary Clinton, whose frigid demeanour and lesbian haircut pushed her husband into the arms of wanton Jewesses during his time in office. Bill spent the rest of his tenure imposing horrific sanctions on the Middle East, bombing pharmaceutical factories and, worst of all, indulging in the venal sin of playing smooth jazz, the most suggestive of all the forbidden music genres. Now his wife looks set to continue his evil but undeniably charismatic reign of terror. The decadent harpy even had the cheek to ask ISIS for a campaign donation.

Other candidates include Rand Paul, who doesn’t even believe in Presidents (witness the hypocrisy of the infidel), and Tom Cruz, star of Top Gun, a revealing documentary on the rampant homosexuality in the US armed forces.

In other international news, we’ve just checked and we can confirm that unfortunately the state of Israel still exists. We are still confident, however, that one of these days Allah will smite them for their sins.

– Domestic News

Keep up to date with current events within the glorious caliphate

Citizens of the caliphate will be delighted to hear that our quest to erase all of the profane historical artefacts from the region is proceeding exactly as planned. There is a fitting quote to sum up our efforts in this area concerning those erasing the past and something about the future, but unfortunately we burnt the last library to the ground last week so nobody can go and look it up.

Our troops are currently in training for their toughest task yet: the destruction of the pyramids. Once we liberate our Egyptian brothers these polytheistic atrocities must be torn down as a message to idolaters the world over. While the unit has not yet perfected its strategy, their commander informs me that the large number of deaths by crushing suffered during training is perfectly normal, and that they are right on the cusp of developing a foolproof tactic.

– Sport

Make the most of all the latest sporting action in the region before the few sports that are left get banned too

The Islamic State softball league continues apace, with Wahhabi Wanderers climbing to second place yesterday with a crushing win over the Sunni Delights. Prophets Over People still sit atop the league but will be disappointed to hear that their star pitcher was caught stealing bread to feed his family over the weekend and promptly had both hands chopped off. He remains optimistic, however, that this is but a minor setback, and he’ll be back in action before the end of the season. What a professional.

– Arts

What’s going on this week in the wonderful but admittedly extremely limited and strictly curtailed world of culture this week?

Mohammed Mohammed (not the one from Mosul, the other one) debuted his one-man play this weekend in the Mohammed theatre in Aleppo. Abu Hamza: Hooked on a Dream is a powerful portrayal of one man’s brave struggle against oppressive Western values.

The six-hour running time absolutely flies by, so engrossing is this modern tale of heroism and courage in the face of adversity. The lead actor is so accomplished he didn’t even break character as the theatre was torn down around him in protest by some in the audience who felt his bow before the interval was a little too flamboyant.

This reviewer would even admit to having a tear in his eye during the final musical number (the incredibly catchy You Hook Me All Night Long) but obviously he can’t, since such blatant sentimentality would of course be a beheading offence.

– Television

Having a lazy day with no stoning or beheading to go to? Kick back and watch some TV. Here’s our guide to what’s on this week

The brand new ISIS TV network Caliph-8 continues to be a resounding success. The top-rated programme this week was Fast and Furious, a reality show pitting competitive fasters against each other to see who can praise Allah with their hunger the most. Other popular shows include Axe Factor, the search to find a new public executioner, and of course the much-loved talent contest Strictly No Dancing.

Unfortunately efforts to re-create some famous Western shows for an IS audience have been somewhat less successful. Keeping up with the Qur’dashians, a light-hearted look at the hectic lives of three high-maintenance sisters from Tikrit, has not been received well. Since the titular women aren’t allowed to drive or have jobs, the show basically consists of the trio just sitting around doing nothing all day. As such it’s pretty much a carbon copy of the US version, which has not endeared it to the local populace.

The much-vaunted Muslim version of Friends has also proved something of a failure after the decision to replace the six twenty-something protagonists with a group of elderly clergymen who sit in a halal café fervently discussing difficult theological questions. This has also sadly led to the cancellation of a number of other impending projects, such as the hotly anticipated Two and a Half Yemen.

– Travel

Our travel correspondent is here to tell us about the launch of ISIS Air

ISIS is pleased to announce that very soon our citizens will be able to travel in luxury with the launch of ISIS Air, a new airline that will service the entire region. King Salman of Saudi Arabia has been kind enough to provide us with an entire fleet of jets, since he’s replacing them all anyway with this year’s new models. As soon as the planes have been fitted with cages to hold animals and wives safely during journeys they’ll be put into service.

A squad of elite pilots is currently in training to become the flight crews for this new venture. We’re told the only slight difficulty has been teaching them how to land the planes, a skill they’ve obviously never needed before.

– Technology

Learn of the technological advances that will aid us in our holy war

In its war against the infidel ISIS has been forced to use the wicked social networking tools of the apostate, like Twitter, Facebook and YouTube. Of course we know that these services are simply Zionist spying networks in disguise but until now we’ve had no choice but to use them.

Soon, however, that may not be the case. Our web developers are hard at work creating a brand new and exclusive social media tool that we can use to spread our message throughout the world.

We had originally outsourced the project to a secret ISIS cell in the US, but unfortunately this turned out to be a cunning ruse by the CIA. Instead of sending us the coding we needed they instead sent us some rather crudely photo-shopped pictures of American heroes like Hulk Hogan and The Rock defecating on the Black Flag of ISIS.

They also sent millions of megabytes of offensive and disgusting Western pornography. It took us weeks to watch all of it, just to make sure the coding wasn’t in there somewhere.

– Agony Abdul

Our Agony Uncle Abdul answers readers’ queries on a range of topics. This week’s letter is from Aziz in Baghdad

Dear Abdul,

In the Quran it says that “Allah enjoins justice and the doing of good to others…and forbids indecency and manifest evil and wrongful transgression.” How can we reconcile this message with the actions of ISIS?

Dear Aziz,

The Quran says a lot of things. It also says “I will cast terror into the hearts of those who disbelieve. Therefore strike off their heads and strike off every fingertip of them.” Now some people might say that such a contrast illustrates just how ridiculous it is to take the word of the Quran literally. I, on the other hand, say that people who say this should have their heads and fingertips cut off. It’s a fine line we walk, Aziz, a fine line.

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Ode to Osama

In the wake of the recent Kenyan shopping centre attack, much opprobrium centred on the alleged role of a 29-year old British woman, Samantha Lewthwaite, or ‘The White Widow’, the somewhat derivative but admittedly catchy sobriquet bestowed on her. Lewthwaite was married to 7 July 2005 suicide bomber Germaine Lindsay, and is currently wanted by Interpol in relation to suspected terrorist activity.

After raiding her house in Mombasa, Kenya recently, detectives found a laptop that betrayed a long history of research into chemicals and bomb making. They also found a 34-line elegiac poem to the deceased al-Qaida leader Osama bin Laden, the full text of which can be found here.

This fulsome ode in honour of a murderous terrorist has, unsurprisingly, outraged Britain’s conservative media. As a response, and in order to evoke the average Briton’s take on such an unpalatable affair, the Daily Mail recently organised its own poetry compilation, accepting submissions from ordinary people around the country on the subjects of bin Laden, religious extremism, and modern, multicultural Britain.

Below is an extract from the collection of poems, with observations by the renowned Mail columnist Richard LittleEngland, an effusive, outspoken commentator known for his traditional values and moral fortitude.

~

Hello, and welcome to the inaugural Daily Mail poetry compendium. We’ve been inundated with responses from people who love their country and their way of life. Reading your entries has made me even prouder than usual to be British. Below is just a small flavour of the poems we’ve received, with brief analysis from yours truly, Richard LittleEngland.

(P.S. Don’t forget, my new book, No Thanks, We’re Full: The Real ‘Big Issue’ of Our Time is available to buy in all good bookshops from next Monday.)

~

There once was a menacing sheikh
Who had the inordinate cheek
To proclaim his disdain
With a couple of planes
But the Yanks put an end to his clique

Trevor, Middlesex

Excellent work, Trevor. He was a cheeky old sod alright, wasn’t he? I always think of limericks as the lost art form.

~

Go home ragheads,
We don’t want you here
20 quid to the airport?
I’ll get a white driver next time
But I still like curry

John, Barnsley

Well…that’s a courageous use of the free verse technique John, I’ll give you that. Moving on…

~

The fire of Islam
Hot embers slip through the grate
It’s smoky in here

Quentin, Cambridge

Nice haiku, Quentin. A bit highbrow though, don’t you think? Try not to show off so much.

~

The boy from Riyadh, a gun in his hand,
Knew no other course but that of martyr
The infidel had raped his land,
From ancient Maghreb to modern Jakarta

Armed by those he wished to destroy,
He held his hand and played their pawn
Within him burned a latent ploy,
He would enact before the dawn

And on young minds his words did prey,
His lecture holding them in thrall
Until he sent them on their way,
As New York summer turned to fall

But monsters thus are never born,
And not for nothing was his scorn

Rob, Edinburgh

Eh, I think you’ve missed the point here Rob. Don’t you love your country? Or are you a Communist? Come on people, let’s get back on message…

~

Muslims in my corner shop,
Muslims on my street
Muslims wearing silly dresses,
Muslims in bare feet
Muslims taking all our jobs,
Muslims on the social,
Muslims fucking everywhere,
Muslims by the bowlful,
Muslims.

Lee, Bradford

Great stuff Lee, that’s more like it. I especially liked the part about the Muslims.

~

Whence this veiled threat?
Kabul? Khartoum? Or simply Kaboom?

East, West, Yin or Yang?
Josiah, Sharia, Qu’ran or Kerrang?

We offend the effendi,
A jihad he had

Fat chance a fatwa
From distant Islamabad

Will Allah wither
Or whither Allah?

Sunni or Sunnah
In sunny Caliphornia?

Stephen, London

Eh…it’s a bit esoteric, isn’t it Steve? That’s not even how you spell California. You bloody public schoolboys are too clever for your own good. 

~

An angel’s smile is what you sell
You promised me Heaven, then put me through Hell
Chains of love got a hold on me
When passion’s a prison, you can’t break free

Osama, you’re a loaded gun
Osama, there’s nowhere to run
No one can save you
The damage is done

Shot through the heart
And you’re to blame
You gave Islam a bad name (bad name)
I played my part and you played your game
You gave Islam a bad name (bad name)
Yeah, you gave Islam, a bad name

Deborah, Swansea

Bravo Deborah, a tour de force. Although it seems slightly familiar to me, I hope it’s all your own work?

~

And so ends our poetic celebration of Britain. Let this stand as a testament of our resolve in the face of political correctness and multiculturalism gone mad. Join us next week in the Arts and Culture section, when we’ll be seeking submissions of paintings and sculptures that capture the failings of the NHS.


Demolition Lady

Paddy O’Donnell stood motionless in the dock, his hands cuffed together at his waist, a scornful look of indifference etched on his scarred face as he stared fixedly at the judge who sat before him. His arms and neck were covered in a sprawl of black ink, his skin a patchwork of intricate Celtic symbols, murals of fallen comrades, and various words and phrases scrawled in old Irish script. Somewhat incongruously, he also bore quite a detailed tattoo on his forearm of Irish actor Colm Meaney as Chief O’Brien from Star Trek. The magistrate’s officious voice echoed around the grand chamber,

‘Mr. O’Donnell, you have been found guilty of each of the charges levelled against you. You have not shown an ounce of remorse for your heinous actions…’

As the judge continued to address him, O’Donnell’s lips curled into a sinister smirk.

‘…hereby sentenced to life imprisonment at the Royal British CryoPrison. You will be eligible for parole only after serving no less than fifty years in cryostasis.’

O’Donnell did not react but maintained his leering glare as the judge looked down at him over the rim of his glasses.

‘That is the judgement of the King’s Court on this, the third day of September 2029.’

As the judge’s gavel fell and the guards began to escort him out of the courtroom, O’Donnell turned to look at the magistrate once more.

‘He’s not my King, your honour,’ he spat contemptuously at him, although unfortunately this venomous riposte was negated slightly by the fact that the judge had already left his seat. As O’Donnell was led away he raised his head and crowed to the assembled masses, ‘Tiocfaidh ár lá’, his face still contorted in a fiendish grin as he was taken from the room.

Constable Jessica Phillips stared distractedly out of her hovercar window as the buildings of London rushed by in a glistening blur. It was early still, the roads almost empty and awash in a bluish neon haze of artificial light. As the car steered itself around the corner onto Simon Cowell Square she noticed a car that had been pulled over by two traffic drones. The driver had clearly tried to make a run for it, since he lay prostrate and unconscious on the kerb as the drones processed the vehicle.

The radio hummed quietly as the car glided towards its destination.

‘This is 20FM, your only station for non-stop 20th century music. That was I Will Survive, a huge hit for Gloria Gaynor in 1979. A hundred years old folks, and still a great tune. Stay with us, coming up after these short messages we’ve got a classic from Will Smith…’

‘Radio off,’ muttered Jessica as she continued to gaze out the window. The Captain’s phone call half an hour earlier had unsettled her. He was not a man given to panic, yet his voice had betrayed an anxiety that troubled her as the car cruised towards the imposing Metropolitan Police complex. Newer Scotland Yard was an impressive feat of architecture, its glass edifice shimmering in the dim morning light as the sun crept over the horizon.

She had met the Commissioner only once, briefly, at a fundraiser for the Science Academy a few years earlier. Something about cloning worker bees as part of their Pollination Project to alleviate food shortages. She remembered he kept making awful jokes about stinging and honey and hive minds, at which she had laughed heartily of course. Not that such fulsome indulgence had furthered her career in any way. Her superiors had always seemed wary of her obsession with the culture and history of the 20th century, as though she was somehow infected with the barbarity and lawlessness of the period. Eight years on the force and still a Constable. Perhaps this impromptu meeting was the opportunity she had been waiting for. This thought lifted her spirits, and she skipped up the marble steps to the entrance as the attendant drone guided her hovercar to its parking space.

The Commissioner’s office was, like that of most professionals, purely functional; all austere minimalism, white walls, straight lines, and gleaming chrome surfaces. The shelves were neatly stacked with masses of colossal grey volumes – legal reference material, political polemics, that kind of thing. She scanned some of the titles: Order from Chaos: Before and After the New Constitution, Civil Liberties: Bane of a Unified Society, Zen and the Art of Drone Maintenance. The only colour present in the room was the deep crimson in the swollen jowls of the man himself, a look of flustered anguish greeting her from behind an enormous desk as she entered. The Captain was already seated in front of him, and nodded curtly to her as she sat down.

‘Thank you for coming at such short notice Constable Phillips. Time is of the essence here so I’ll get right to the point.’

Jessica listened attentively as the Commissioner outlined the situation. It transpired that yesterday evening, during a routine parole hearing at the CryoPrison, a convicted terrorist had somehow escaped. He had also managed to free several of his comrades, after which they took control of an entire wing of the facility and barricaded themselves in. This O’Donnell character was one of the leaders of the Actual IRA, a group of revolutionaries from the early part of the century, who were very sensitive about confusion with other contemporary factions such as the Bona Fide IRA and Seriously, We’re the IRA. These terrorist organisations sprang up after economic difficulties forced the Irish government to sign the Act of Union II in 2023.

The Commissioner continued, ‘Which brings us to why you’re here, Constable. The Captain tells me you’re something of an enthusiast regarding the 20th century.’

‘Yes Sir, I studied the history and politics of the era as an optional module during my Citizenry Training. But the 21st century IRA was quite different to…’

The Commissioner held out his hand to stop her.

‘It’s not an expert on the terrorists we need, Constable. We unfroze our own last night, after the escape.’

Phillips looked from the Commissioner to the Captain in confusion.

‘I don’t understand Sir…’

‘You’re the expert on our expert, Constable Phillips. You’re to be her handler for as long as this situation takes to resolve.’

With these enigmatic remarks the Commissioner pushed a button on his desk and addressed his secretary in the hallway.

‘Sarah, please send in the Baroness.’

Jessica turned to face the door as it slid open with a hiss. A figure she instantly recognised swept into the room, her beady eyes surveying the three of them with a slight hint of curiosity, and no little amount of disdain. Her hair was immaculately coiffed, her overcoat prim and pristine. Her frail hands, more bone than skin and practically translucent, were tightly gripped around a small brown handbag.

‘Well it’s about bloody time. Woken up after sixty-odd years and left sitting out in the hall with only a frightfully dull woman and a flying robot for company. It’s a long way from 10 Downing Street, I’ll tell you that much. If Denis were here, he’d tell you…’

‘Ah, Mrs. Thatcher,’ began the Commissioner hesitantly, ‘I do hope the security drone didn’t bother you too much…’

‘Infernal Japanese invention no doubt. Of course you know what Ronald always said about the Japanese…’

‘Baroness,’ he interrupted again, ‘I’d like to introduce you to Constable Phillips. She’ll be taking care of you while you’re with us.’

Jessica, still in shock at what was happening before her, stood up and extended her hand.

‘It’s an honour, Ma’am.’

Thatcher looked her up and down with a contempt that wasn’t so much thinly veiled as stark bollock naked.

‘A woman? Couldn’t you find someone more…senior, Commissioner?’

‘I assure you Ma’am, the Constable is an expert on…’

‘Yes, yes, alright, she’ll have to do’ she snapped impatiently.

‘Although if I may say so dear, you’ll never be taken seriously walking around with all that slap on your face. I told Edwina Currie the same thing. Edwina, I said, if you act like a whore then you can expect to be treated…’

‘Yes, well, no time to lose,’ interjected the Commissioner hastily.

‘We have a Situation Room set up at the prison. Let’s get over there and see if we can sort out this mess.’

Jessica sat in the back of the hovercar, nervously trying to answer Mrs. Thatcher’s incessant questions to the best of her ability.

‘These flying contraptions must cost a tidy sum, dear? I hope you’re not paying through the nose for labour costs, they seem quite flimsy.’ The Baroness was fidgeting with the video screen in front of her and had managed to break it cleanly off its mount.

‘Well Ma’am, we don’t really deal in money anymore.’

‘No money?’ she exclaimed, aghast at the notion.

‘Why if old Major heard that one he’d chase you round the House with his cricket bat. No money indeed. How on earth do your companies function?’

‘There are no private companies anymore. Everything is run by the City Authorities.’

‘Sounds a lot like Communism to me dear,’ replied Thatcher, and spat on the floor of the car.

A flat, monotonous voice buzzed from the speaker overhead, ‘Expectoration in a municipal vehicle is a crime. A civil obedience drone has been dispatched to your…’

‘Override dispatchment. Authorisation code Phillips Bravo Foxtrot.’

After a slightly awkward pause Jessica went on,

‘People need control. There’s practically no crime anymore; any that does occur is taken care of by the drones. They can be quite a deterrent.’

‘And the whole country is like this now?’

‘The major cities are. Some outcasts prefer to stay in the wilderness, but it’s total chaos out there.’

‘So there’s no crime, no resistance, no trade unions to be faced down, no foreign dictators to be put in their place, nobody protesting or clamouring for change?’

Phillips shook her head.

Turning back to stare out the window, Thatcher muttered with a hint of sadness, ‘What on earth do you do for fun?’

The Situation Room bustled with activity as they entered, the Commissioner waiting for them in front of a screen that showed the interior of the prison wing. A breathless subordinate ran to greet them, evidently still finishing his lunch as he clutched a half-eaten sandwich and a glass of milk.

‘Mrs Thatcher, it’s an honour. It’s all go here as you can imagine. Anything I can get you?’

‘Yes, I’m thirsty,’ the Baroness replied coldly, and snatched the glass of milk from his hand. The Commissioner motioned to her and she strode across the room to where he stood, an audible hush having descended amongst the assembled crowd as every pair of eyes followed her regal march across the floor.

The Commissioner greeted her at the screen, ‘The leader of the terrorists is ready to talk, Baroness. As per your recommendation, we’ve disguised his real voice and replaced it with an alternate.’

‘Good. He’ll get no free publicity from me.’

‘Quite. We weren’t sure whose voice to impose on him, so we picked a prominent celebrity from your era. I hope you approve, Ma’am.’

‘Yes yes, let’s get on with it, shall we?’

She stepped up to the intercom and addressed the prisoner, ‘Mr. O’Donnell, this is Lady Thatcher. What exactly is it you want that’s so damned important?’

There was a short pause, then through the makeshift speakers that flanked the giant video screen came the unmistakeable voice of 1990s’ entertainment personality Mr. Blobby.

‘I’ve told your Commissioner what I want. I want equality. I want justice. I want…’

‘Oh shut up for a minute, you sound ridiculous,’ she snapped. She turned to the Commissioner and raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, what does he want? His country freed from oppression, I suppose. His children’s children released from the yoke of bondage most likely, yes? The lifeblood of his comrades in arms vindicated by the submission of…’

‘Eh, fag breaks,’ came the crackled voice over the intercom. Thatcher turned back to the microphone, a look of confusion on her face.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Fag breaks. Just a few a year or whatever. Gets bloody cold in that thing, you know.’

The Baroness swivelled and cast an accusatory glance at the Commissioner that would turn a lesser man to stone.

‘This…is what you brought me here for?’ she snarled at him. Before he could answer she turned on her heels and promptly marched out of the room, followed closely by Jessica.

‘Eh…is that a yes?’

The hovercar drifted through the evening fog towards the Citizens’ CryoFacility on the outskirts of the city. Phillips sat opposite the Baroness, who sat sedately silent in her seat.

‘You’re sure you don’t want to stay a few more days Ma’am?’

‘What’s the point? May as well get back to that blasted ice cube for another lifetime I suppose, until I’m needed again.’

Jessica sensed the resignation in her voice.

‘You might grow to like it here, after a while.’

‘I thrive on conflict dear. In a world without any, what good am I to anyone?’

Sighing to herself, she sat back in her seat, her eyes glazed and downcast. For the first time that day Jessica didn’t see a fearsome, indomitable force of nature, but a tired and lost old woman who felt discarded by the world.

‘Well there is one place I can think of Ma’am, but like I said, it’s total chaos.’

Thatcher looked up to meet her gaze, her wizened face betraying a trace of a smile.

When they reached the outer gate the Baroness turned to Jessica and shook her hand.

‘Thank you Constable. You’ve been very helpful. I shan’t imagine I’ll be seeing you again.’

‘You’re sure about this Mrs. Thatcher? Once you go out there there’s no turning back.’

The Baroness looked her in the eye,

‘Don’t worry dear. This lady’s not for turning.’

With that she shuffled through the gate and into the bleak terrain beyond. Leaning against her hovercar, Jessica watched the hunched figure disappear into the grey mist.

After a few moments she sat into the car and began her journey home. ‘Radio on.’

‘…back to 20FM folks, and here’s a song from the 1980s that captured the mood of an angry nation. I don’t know about you but I’m glad those dark days are behind us.’

As the car thrummed its way back along the grey highway into the sprawling cityscape, the opening bars of Ghost Town reverberated around the interior of the immense machine, and a tear rolled down Jessica’s cheek as she surveyed the dark, lifeless metropolis that awaited her return.