Nick Clegg reviews nuclear power

Hi, Cleggers here. Or ‘Cleggety Clops‘ as I’m known in certain sections of The House of Lords.

So then, nuclear powers – who wants one?  I had a meeting with a nuclear engineer man the other day, and he was a very interesting chap.  He was telling me all about radioactivity and why you need to wear gloves when picking up lumps of uranium.  I had always assumed that uranium would have little finger holes like those ten-pin bowling balls do, but he said they didn’t.  Just before he went home, he gave me a free pen and I really like it ‘cos when I press the presser down, the radiation symbol on the side lights up. It reminded me a bit of the Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles and I was a massive fan of them guys back in the day. Well, apart from Raphael that is – he was just a grouch. I liked Donatello’s stick, but Michaelangelo was the best of the lot. I asked the nuclear engineer man if he wanted to go halves on a pizza, but the miserable sod said no. Obviously, his favourite turtle was Raphael.

Right, nuclear power. It sounds BRILL and I have to confess that I’m not a big fan of coal these days.  Coal power stations, coal fires, and coalition governments – all of them sound great at first, but after a while they start to get on your tits. I did read that if you crushed a big bit of coal really hard, you could make a diamond. I decided to give this a try, and fished around in my shed for a pair of gloves. I did find them eventually but then I remembered I didn’t have any coal, which put a bit of a downer on things. It reminded me of that time when I went to go and get a lottery ticket, but I somehow lost my £1 coin on the way to the shop. Funds were low at Lib Dem HQ at the time, so we had to go without heating for a week.

Not to be disheartened by my coal-crushing failure, I decided to practice the technique on some eggs. Someone once told me that eggs are really strong, so it was an ideal opportunity to test this theory out. Mind you, I remember when I decided to test out another theory, whereby sitting on an egg would make it hatch into a cute baby chicken – I made a right mess of the chaise longue. Anyway, egg crushing. I somehow lost my gloves, so I had to use an old sock instead. Of course, then I couldn’t remember where I left the eggs.

So, all in all, coal is a load of old crap.

A snowman reviews an organically grown carrot

Us snow blokes aren’t usually around for very long, so we have to make do with what we have. I once watched a nature documentary about a species of giant moth who only live for about two days; they hatch, mate furiously with whoever they wake up next to, and then die 48 hours later. Snow people are kind of similar, except we don’t get to participate in socially-acceptable orgies. This is partly because snow vaginas are somewhat thin on the ground, but mostly ‘cos snow penises are, well, thin and carroty.

Talking of carrots, this particular one is a marvellous bit of kit.  Organic veg might be a bit wonky and smelly but the extras tend to make up for that. This one came with a free dead spider in the box and once I pulled the legs off, I was able to use them as a beard. And we all know how the chicks dig a man with a beard, amirite?  The carrot itself has a nice natural brightness to it, one that gives off the impression that I’ve just come back from a sunny holiday somewhere.  And chicks love going on holiday, yeah?

A while back I was asked to test a parsnip.  It was great for camouflaging myself during games of hide and seek, but most people said that it made me look anaemic.  To be honest, our games of hide and seek tend to get rather boring after a while; if you watch a family of snails going out for a picnic, you’ll see that they leave nasty trails behind them and we tend to do the same thing.  We actually have quite a lot in common with snails: an abject fear of salt, for example.

So it’s top marks for organic stuff from me.  Stay tuned for next week’s article where I discuss the pros and cons of Brussels sprouts.

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The Pope reviews an outdoor, rotary washing line

Hai, is Pope here.  This year, City of Vatican celebrates Halloween – Christ alive, it make mess!  Someone used rotary washing line as prop for crucifixion costume, and now we need to buy new one.  Using man on cross to scare away peeps wanting trick or treat was great fun, could hear screams of children all over house!  One group of brave kids did make it to the door, but they turn out to be Jehovah Witnesses.  I threw holy water at them, and they melted away.  We took their sweets, and keep them for holy communion services.  We usually use stale bit of bread for adults, but younger generation want chocolates.  Of course, the sugar makes them go crazy so we lock them in cupboard until they behave again.

Popemobile is at garage getting repair, so I order washing line on webs of Internet.  I no believe in credit cards, so use Papal Paypal account to transfer funds of three holy grails and silly, white hat I no longer use.  Line is come from Hong Kong, so it take few days to arrive.  In meantime, I dry socks on radiator and turn robe inside out when I give public speech.  If I do speech on radio, I like do it wearing only my underpants.  It mean I relax, drink glass of Schnapps and just talk about whatever.  During advert break, I do many press ups to get adrenaline pumping, and maybe even do Tarzan impression.

At last, washing line arrive!  Hmmm, this one made of stainless steel.  That is good, yah?  If going to make something from steel, may as well be one that no get bird poo on it.  Oh, and it also come with spare cord.  Spare cord is good, it useful for giving carrier pigeon place to perch on.  We use carrier pigeon to communicate with uncivilised places that no have electricity, like Africa, parts of China, and most of Scotland.

Okay, washing line take about an hour to put up.  Was annoying, but look how fast it spin round!  Fireworks night will be much fun with fast spinning rotary.

I award rotary line top marks.  A+++ would buy from seller again.

Sebastian Coe reviews the Olympics

And so, the greatest show on earth, has finished.  It was tense, it was emotional, and it was damned expensive, but when my stylist finally held up the mirror, so I could see the back of my head… well, words fail me.  It was just beautiful, and I didn’t pay a penny towards it either, which was a nice bonus.  No point being a Lord, if you can’t dip into the nation’s coffers every now and then.  As my medal count proves, I was a pretty nifty athlete back in the day, and I didn’t give any quarter to anyone.  Now I’m the top dog, I get given quarter of a million just for scratching my arse.

So, London 2012, then.  It weren’t bad, to be honest.  First of all, twenty is my favourite number.  Secondly, going to other countries is annoying.  Half of them don’t speak English, and the other half are nearly always French.  I remember all the hullabaloo beforehand, where everyone was moaning about congestion on the roads, and delays on the Underground.  I wanted to witness this for myself, and I tell you, everything was fine from where I was, up in my helicopter.  Every time I looked down at the ants below me, wearing their Union Jack hats as they queued up for an ice cream, it gave me a warm glow of satisfaction, knowing that they were all thinking of me.

The women’s beach volleyball drew some impressive crowds, and even the most casual of observers will quickly see why: the sand.  All that crushed rock is just perfect for one’s walk-in aquatic aquarium, and my Finding Nemo clown fish will love it.  What with them only having five-second memories, they’ll never get bored of bobbing around, looking for discarded gold medals.

*Sigh*  Now that the party’s over, going back to work will be hell.  I got a text message from David Beckham, earlier.  He was all excited, saying he thought he saw his wife on the TV during the closing ceremony.

Ah well, I can’t wait for Rio 2016.

Roger Federer reviews a block of cheddar cheese

Hey, ho peeps!  How you today?  I was bit sad after lose tennis match, against Scot-Brit Andy Murray during Olympics, but now I stop cry and feel better.  I decide maybe tennis too much for me, and change job to review things.  Reviews is nice job, plus I get to try stuff for free!  Everyone knows that frees are fun!  I start off review something that is easy, which is cheese.  Cheese is one of my favourite things, especially to eat.  It has other uses as well, like playing peeka-bo with the holes, or having fun with cheese grater inbetween tennis match.  I manage to get plenty of cheese-grating practice done during my time at Wimbledon, is why people say I such grate champion.  I often sprinkle grated cheese on bathroom floor, so I not slip when step out of shower.

Okay, so I have favourite knife ready to cut cheese.  I take cheese out of wrapping, and… what this?  Why there no holes in cheese?  Is this work of devil?  Tennis racket have holes, cheese grater have holes, so why cheddar no have holes?  Let me see what box say… it say is made in Scotland!  Bastard Scot-Brit, he come and steal from me again!  Why he take my cheesy holes, is no fair.  I wonder why box feel bit heavy, it because there too much cheese.  Too much cheese at once be dangerous, I remember my granddad say he had lots of nightmares when he had too much before bedtime.  I hope I no have bad dream about ugly goblin who mess my hair up, like I did when I was child.

Right, I cut cheese now.  Blimey, no-hole cheese is tough!  I use two hands, but still I struggle to get a good slice off.  I hope it not break my cheese grater, I am down to my last one, and shops no open now.  Usually I eat cheese in sandwich, but I worried about this heavy cheese making me burst.  I know, I will cook toast for too long, and then scrape off the burnt bits, to balance things out.  Okay, here I go to taste, I close my eyes in case it jumps up and try to blind me.  Hmmm, actually this heavy cheese is quite tasty.  Maybe not all Scot-Brits are bad, after all.

No, wait.  If no holes in cheese, what I use to keep fingers warm in bed?  Why Scot-Brits want make me cry all time?

David Cameron reviews a slice of ham

Hello there, fellow compatriots, D-Cam here! Or ‘Wazzock Chops’, as they used to call me, back in my days at Eton Posh Boarding School for Posh Boys. So then, ham. I’ve never actually seen a slice of ham before, so this is all very exciting, and new for me. However, I do know that the common British peasant loves the stuff, and I’m beginning to see why. Just the name of it is an inspiring bit of joyousness: ham, spam, spim, spom, bam. See? It just rolls off the tongue! It’s a perfect word, and I can imagine someone using it to name their dog, or even their favourite handkerchief. It even works as an insult. “No, Smythe, you can’t go on the top bunk again! Sometimes, you’re a real ham!”

Okay, let’s open the packet.  I’ll use a pair of tweezers, just in case there’s a tropical spider trapped inside.  Easy does it, and… by golly!  There’s SIX SLICES OF THE STUFF!  How did that happen?  Has it mutated, en route?  Has it managed to breed with itself?  It must be French, they’re bloody mad about having sex with themselves over there.  I remember back in Eton, there was a French chap who did it all the time.  He had a torrid time at the hands of the prefects, I tell you.  They were always waking him up in the middle of the night, stripping him naked, and then forcing him to do press ups in the middle of the courtyard.  Still, it’s all part of the character building.  I thought it was a bit harsh when they threw his clothes into the river, but the one time I stuck up for him, they threatened to revoke my midnight feast privileges!  I’d earned the right to have the red Fruit Pastilles, and no way was I going to let some Froggy rotter get in the way of that.

Right, the ham.  Well, it’s kind of floppy, and doesn’t seem to be doing anything at the moment.  Most things that run on electricity come with a pre-fitted plug, but I can’t find a lead of any kind in the packet.  Hmm, it sits kind of nicely on my head, actually.  It’s nice and cool, which would be good for a hot, summers day.  Ah, of course!  That’s why there’s so many in each pack!  You put one on your head, and then another in your glass of Pimms, to keep it cool as you lounge around, out on the sun deck.

Well, it’s top marks for ham from me.  Join me next week, as I uncover the secrets of Blu Tac, whatever the bloody hell it is.

A stag beetle reviews the Australian cricket team

G’day mate!  Hehe, I love that Ozzie accent.  Let’s slap another shrimp on the barbie!  Oh man, I just couldn’t resist it that time.  Them Ozzers are just mad.  So lively.  So loud.  So utterly and compellingly racist.  I guess that’s what happens when you are stuck down there on a crappy island in the Pacific Ocean with nothing but deadly insects and a rubbish sport to keep you entertained.  Not that there is anything wrong with insects of course.  In fact if I am honest, I don’t mind cricket too much either.  And the whole racism thing – who isn’t just a teensy bit territorial and suspicious of outsiders?  I tell you, if a woodlouse snuck into my hole under the stairs and tried to cosy up under my lump of belly-button fluff I would tell him to clear off.

Right then.  Ever since Shane Warne quit as Australia’s best bowler so that he could spend more time getting plastic surgery done on his face, the Australian cricket team just ‘aint been the same really.  Where are the characters?  What happened to all the fun pranks like setting fire to the team bus and then shagging your own sister in the middle of the road?  Back in the day, I used to love crawling out to the middle of the field after a game had finished.  When they removed the stumps from the ground there was always a nice, round hole for me to sleep in.  Obviously I had to be on the lookout for owls on the way there ‘cos they are greedy buggers who love to gobble up little bugs for a quick snack, but once I was there I was happy as Larry.  Sometimes the woodlice would ask if they could come in as well but I just told them there was no way they were getting anywhere near my hole.  No way hozay, no way.

Anyone remember Merv Hughes?  He was a legend back in the 1980s although he couldn’t actually bat for shit; people only liked him because of that crazy moustache of his.  It sort of made him look like a paedophile but boy did he look fierce!  I was always worried that a bowler would mistake me for a cricket ball and send me flying through the air at Merv.  My concern was not so much about having my guts splattered all over the place, but because Merv was rubbish.  The hairy oaf would miss and then I would land slapbang in the middle of his hairy lip.  The mere thought of those testosterone-filled tendrils scrabbling around my backside gives me the creeps.

Mind you, his scent would be good for warding off woodlice.

Vladimir Putin reviews a glass of Coke

Hail comrades!  Today I take special delivery of Coca Cola, elixir of taste and fizz.  Coke is symbol of Western propaganda so it delivered in secure box and guarded by KGB agents who ride atop mighty steed of grizzly bear.  If Coke manage to escape and run away, it setup camp in woods and organise democracy rally march.  I make sure all doors and windows closed, plugs in sink and bath stuffed with wax and chimney blocked with carcass of starving horse.  I also leave key in keyhole so it not able to sneak look outside of room.

I unscrew lid of Coke and immediatly I see it froth up and try to escape.  I let it out slow so as to keep it in bottle cage.  When pour in glass it take me by surprise and froth up much faster and this time it escape over rim of glass!  I shout and call in guards so they stop it run away.  They get hairdryers and shoot hot air at Coke so it dry up and no trickle on floor.  I worry that if it get in ground then Coke plant sprout up and have lots of Father Christmases grow from branches.  Father Christmas well known for emptying his sack in sock of children, much like Catholic priest.

Now come to taste Coke but I worry that Coke is like virus, it infect me to be host for something bad.  I get guard to drink Coke and then I smell his burp to see if I like or not.  Guard drink it but not burp.  I tell him drink more but he still no burp.  I have guard shot for being traitor and decide to drink Coke myself.  It quite nice and tasty and make me do loud burp.  I hear guard laughing at my burp so I set bear on him.  Then I kill bear by getting in headlock.

Next week, if I manage to get tin opener back from neighbour, I review Heinz tomato soup.

Hook cleric Abu Hamza al-Masri reviews his favourite Transformers

Hello there peeps.  Today I welcome both infidels and fans of The Sharia as I take break from shouting about things I hate.  For now I speak about thing everybody should love; TRANSFORMERS!  They my favourite toy and I often sing words like ‘robots in de skies!’ when I am get ready for preachings of hate.  Film was bit rubbish as they no make proper noise.  Michael Bay is asshole and double infidel so I shout lots of hate about him and family.

Optimus Prime

Prime is brave leader of Autobots.  I no mind Prime much as he transform into truck which handy for popping to curtain rail shop if need spare fist-hook for hand.  He also have holo-projector which good for holo-project The Sharia on buildings and backside of infidels.

Megatron

‘Tron is bad man of Decepticons.  He transform into gun which good for stopping infidel but where he keep spare copy of The Sharia?  I always carry emergency spare in pack of fannies in case I leave on train or when shouting hate in local non-halal butchers.

Arcee

This is lady bot which make me feel offend.  She turn into car which stupid as women no allowed to drive.  Car boot would be good for keeping spare veils for ladies in case they lose theirs when eating snack of Pringles.  Pringles nice and popular with Ladies of The Sharia.  They use empty tube for handbag or kaleidoscope.

Sharia Hate Infidelbot

This new Transformer that I invent myself.  I once try to draw him but I get too excite and tear paper with fist-hook by accident.  He turn into megaphone so can shout hate and say The Sharia very loud.  It also have grill turny thing so can make halal kebabs when hungry after Sharia roadshow.  Sometimes people dress up as hobbits from Lord of Rings when they hear about The Sharia.  I no mind but wish they would put something on feet.

Piers Morgan reviews his own shit-eating grin

Cowabunga dudes!  It’s Piersy Morgers here and I have decided to tell you all about moi.  I am a big fan of cats and have an entire shed dedicated to them and their mysterious ways.  I built the shed myself using a combination of blood, tears and self-satisfied smuggery.  That last attribute was particularly useful for banging in the last few troublesome nails.  I decided to name the shed ‘Sheba’ and I am it’s queen.  Which of course makes me The Queen of Sheba.  I sometimes put on a robe and fill the inside pockets with kittens so I can listen to them mewling in honour of their gracious kingy-queen.  I even have authentic photographs to show as proof if you don’t believe me.

I also like holidays and my favouritest holiday was when I popped over to Iraq back in 2004.  I got kidnapped by a gang of Iraqi criminals and they threatened to kill me unless I gave them lots of money.  When I told them I was a celebrity they soon changed their tune and it wasn’t long before they were begging me for an autograph.  I then got rescued by some British soldiers and the translator informed me that my captors thought that I was the gay, wimpy one from Four Weddings and a Funeral.  But it still counts, right?  Celebrity by proxy is still celebritiness.  And yes, I have 100% authentic photographs that I can show you as proof.

Last year some time I bought myself an owl and named it Twitter.  I could tell right away that I was doing well with Twitter as it kept responding to every ‘twit’ I made.  ”Twit-twit-to-WOO!” I would say and it would do a twitty right back at me.  If I leave Twitter alone for too long I get worried that it has forgotten about me so I unleash a mighty T-bomb at him.  Occasionally he flies around and does lots of little Twit-shits on me but, well, I kind of like the attention.  It gives me a real feeling of legitimacy among all the other Twitter owners out there.  But make no mistake, I am the master of Twitter.  Oh yes I am.

I have some authentic photos of all this you know.  They definitely aren’t fake, I can tell by looking at the pixels and from seeing quite a few Photoshops in my time.