Wong is White!

Mr Wong seems set to be a great addition to our band. Old Monty, as you know, is in no sense a racist, yet some of our members have led sheltered lives and viewed his arrival with a trace of trepidation. At our meeting tonight disagreable restraint hung about the room like an unwanted turkey.

Miss Jarvis gently agonized in silence on the sofa. “Mr Wong”, she began, “please forgive the enquiry, but are you really certain you would not eat darling doggy?”
“Me no eat doggy!” replied the cheery Chinaman, “but eat plenty lady pussy in my time ha ha!”
This witty rejoiner at once cleared the air.
Mr Wong now embarked on a passionate oration, urging the immediate, systematic fire-bombing of the Golden Horn Kebab ‘n’ Pizzaria, the Amritsar Balti House and Sammy’s Chick’nDipp’n.

I was powerfully reminded of the sentiments of Kipling: that East is East and West is West, but we are broadly the same colour and we all hate the blacks.

"One touch of nurture makes the whole world kin". Not counting coons, of course.

The Ballad of Rickmansworth Gaol

My much-loved readers, your Monty has returned. I am finally at liberty to lay the loathsome lies of that infamous organ the “Chorleywood Advisor”, the mouthpiece of the curry house from here to Hemel Hampstead.

On the morning of Wednesday, August 2, an incompetantly scurrilous poster (reproduced left) appeared throughout our leafy town. I was promptly detained by Inspector Pleasant, effete puppet-master of the Multicultural Squad, although I knew nothing of this fatuous imposture. My helpful assistence was rendered in the press as “Cor blimey, strike a light guv’nor, you’ve got me banged to rights and no mistake, oh lumme chum. It’s a fair cop ain’t it? You’re a real gent Inspector, strike me if it ain’t so much an arrest and more a bloomin’ privilege, ain’t it?”.

I then pointed out that no half-witted child would fall for this ludicrous fake. Or, in the weasely words of the “Advisor” - “Stocking made a full confession: ‘Lor’ love a duck, I’ll bally well come clean, copper. Strike me, but I can’t keep me mitts off the kiddies, Streuth. I’m a wrong’un sure enuf. I ‘opes they blinkin’ locks me up and throws away the key I do”.

The untiring efforts of the decent folk of Chorleywood at last compelled Pleasant to suspend his machinations. I strode from the generous acclamation of the gaol to the fervent elation of numberless supporters, not least our new friend Mr Wong, who proudly distributed his “Freedom Foo-Yung” gratis. Yet once dear old Monty lay safe in his bed, he was suddenly awoken by the telephone bell. I answered and was welcomed by a crazed female voice: “You may have escaped me, but I’ll get you yet - and I'm just like Dawn French, I really, really am, look at me! I'm eating all these bloody Curley Wurlys!" It faded away in obscene sucking noises. Who knows what enigmas these outlandish words portend?

Halal Horror!

Dear reader, old Monty is no cove for overstatement. But when I think of Emily, I think of one word: Spunk.

Tadger has implied a quiet country upbringing. Doubtless she bloomed in some sunny-walled old Rectory, where mullioned inglenooks looked down upon the moss of centuries. A world where “mutton rogan josh” was but a rumour, unbelieved, a fleeting shadow on the grass, as of the pixies' flute.

Yet this tiny creature of exquisite sensibility has honed her elfin frame into a thunderbolt of light. Today, as your chum nibbled quietly on a bicky, engrossed in a stimulating episode of “Countdown”, where Miss Carol Vorderman appeared to some advantage, the doorbell unexpectedly rang. ‘Twas Emily, braving the blustery showers in a cosily practical PVC catsuit, alongside "Lippy" Hetherington, the doyen of the camera club. “We’ve taken some photographs, Montague old man”, he winkingly confided with a gesture to the nose. “One does like to ply the old Nikon for the cause!”

A few moments later I sat in silenced awe. Selflessly defying her agonising shyness, the child had portrayed the plight of blonds in the cous-cousy hands of the maniacs of Mecca! Will nobody answer those pleading eyes? Can any boast of manhood when a shard of glass remains in the windows of the Golden Horn Kebab ‘n’ Pizzeria? Let Chorleywood decide!

Satan Never Sleeps!

Even the bolshiest bishop could tell what this rascally reverend has been slipping in the poor-box, although “Mr” Sambo yet lingers in the dark, a state well befitting a cuckolded coon. Not that a Stocking would cast the first stone. I am curiously comforted to find one of the clergy retaineth a reverberant pea in his pipe. And letteth no man calleth Monty a bigot. But if I spooned the custard on a hot chocolate pud, the ensuing picanniny would have greeted the dawn in a carrier bag by the chip shop!

As one of profound spiritual feeling, such thoughts sprung forth as I briskly returned through the cool sabbath mists from a vigorous pasting. Yet it makes a fellow wonder what he’s really fighting for. The usual tutting spinsters scuttled nervously to church, down pavements clogged with the Kingdom of God’s 4X4s and “gifted” brats.Yet Monty alone in the self-righteous throng could be counted as one of the saints.

These bloody female Vicars all want to be Dawn French. Our own Chorleywood has a vestry virago, spluttering out “cliterous” at every opportunity and “accidentally” scattering her hidden Curley Wurlys. The bloated bride of Babylon’s bum was out on the church porch touting for trade. “Oh Mr Stocking” it lardily simpered “Won't you join us inside, to pray for peace in Lebanon?”. I adroitly pointed out that the rag-heads in Tehran have a photographic list of every natural blond in England, already shared out amongst the hashish-crazed bastards. “But you, dearest Vicar, need not feel distressed, for looking as you do, they will take you as a eunuch”. I strode from the scene in the amiable knowledge that pious Pauline’s pie-hole had been well and truly plugged.

Verily I doeth the work of the Lord, and deserveth a prodigal snifter!

Caucasians in Cages - Does Bloody Blair Care?

I have taken one's supper at the Dog and Bucket, so some might think old Monty a touch heavy on the keys, like that bugger Liberace, the appalling Hebrew poof. Oh yes. As I sauntered homewards this scabby old bag yelled "look, it's Monty Stocking, the pissed racist bastard".

Old Monty has always been a one for the wordplay. Many's the little lady who surrendered to my rounded vowels and found herself impaled upon the famous tongue-twister. "Madam!" I retorted, aligned to a lamp-post, "Madam, in the morning you shall look like my arse and I shall be Winston Churchill". As literary types amongst my readers will know, this was a spankingly quick-fire allusion to the well-known works of Oscar Wilde, the celebrated ginger. The only way to talk to these bloody women vicars.

Prior to ones' well-earned slumbers and an early pasting, one finds it is incumbant upon me to declare that every singlelingle day thousands of lovely English girls are abducted, forced to wear humiliating costumes, kept in cages and fed on dog food to entertain Wong and his inscruitabable banana-coloured countrymen. Just think of that.

And people maunder on about them bloody baby sealions.

You're old friend Monty. I am your freind you know? best bloody freind in the world. Please leave a comment. Go on mate.

go on. Please.

oh well. night night then.

The National Health

Reader, as you may have guessed, Old Monty was not in the best of form yesterday. Tadger found me jim-jammed in the hours sacred to lunch, disconsolately prodding at an unwelcome breaky. Yet the dice-throws of destiny don’t keep you pal downhearted. A sprightly rendition of Tadge’s latest tale, where huge jungly nig-nogs capture Miss Carol Vorderman and gloatingly compel her to ripen their bananas, had me gobbling down the rashers with the gusto of a goat.

Young Tadger lamented the prejudice of publishers: “Braless in Gaza”, his stirring account of Miss Natasha Kaplinsky in the hands of camel-shaggers, is callously rejected once again. The blow of this injustice flickered across my face and suddenly his manly hand had seized upon my knee, a gesture reminiscent of grand days of Nelson. “Monty! Oh think of the kiddies of England! You cannot sit in darkness! Chorleywood needs you!”

At this very instant it seemed the walls dissolved. I saw as in a vision nigh a million tow-haired moppets, forced to sing calypso tunes and live on Bombay Mix. “Dear Tadger!” I exclaimed, “My work begins anew!”. “Monty!” he cried “I seem to hear trumpets!”

The enormous success of our poster campaign had been greviously hindered by the perfidious Wong, who had purchased a proprietary paper remover and was now back in business selling bowls of shark-dick stew.

So. Straight down “Singh’s Sundries” for vital supplies. Tadger distracted the Cadbury-coloured coon by slapping his esteemable plonker on the cheeses, as your bold correspondant whipped a film for the Brownie and escaped in a cloud of the curses of old Cairo. By a happy chance, Emily has a photographic studio, available to gentlemen on weekday afternoons, plus an extensive collection of uniforms retained for use during national emergencies. It was but the work of moments for the lovely young patriot to devise a grand poster idea, revealing how busloads of sickly wogs threaten our cottage hospital.

Tonight we are once again plying the pastebrush and Wong shall awaken to darkness!

Pip pip, fellow patriots!

A Little Local Difficulty

It often happens that old dame fortune turns her tricks at the moment of triumph. Leaving the saloon bar of the Dog and Bucket, having quaffed a celebrationary glass or two of lunch, I happened to stumble as anyone might and lost my footing on the curb. Suddenly I heard that appalling Mrs Singh - “Hallo Mr Stocking - don’t you worry now, at our age we’re none of us too steady on our feet”. Then, without a by-your-leave, she seized my arm, as if it were truck in a fly-blown darkey bazaar!

Perhaps I was a bit confused. Better chaps than Monty have broken under fire. I mean to say a fellow can’t control his bladder can he? It doesn't mean you're less a man does it? But all the silly cow could say was “don’t you worry love - we’ll soon get you home and have you sorted out”,

People were looking and I heard those kids laugh. Some bloody yob shouted “pissed again grandpa?”. Monty’s no fool and I know what they must think of me. It’ll take some living down, being seen out with a Paki.

Going Underground!

In the mellow moments before one's evening snifter, I must share this splendid photograph taken by Emily, Tadger's delightful live-in neice, using her so-called "mobile camera telephone". It shows one of the countless reawakening patriots inspired by our noble efforts in the bosky dews of morningtide!

In the beautiful words of Dame Thora Hird, "If I can't help somebody as I pass along, my living will not be in vain"

Lump to the throat.

PLASTERED!

Tomorrow Belongs To Twee!

I sit exhausted, exhausted yet exuberant, a stiff one grasped in my trembling hand. Betwixt generous sips of the brew of Old Isla, I contemplate this glorious day. Before the yellow dawn had crept behind the roofs beyond the Golf Course, Miss Jarvis, Miss Jenkins, "Tadger" Metcalfe and myself were plastering the station approaches with posters. The numberless inhabitants of the so-called "Pekin Palace" will awake to find Sammy's proud British melons blocking off the birds' nest soup from the clear, clean light of England!

Days of hope indeed!

Our gallant work done, the little band breakfasted at Kate's Kozy Koffee Kup (Famous For Our Muffins'), watching awestruck commuters pass, bright embers of the Bull Dog spirit kindling in long-sleeping hearts. Then home and dry for a wee spot of Champers (above), knowing that we left behind a cleaner, better Chorleywood, not to mention bloody Wong scratching at his windows!

Thirsty work indeed! Top Hole!

FOX AWAY!

Fame, as the poet said, is indeed the spur, and none can deny that Old England is a nag in need of a damned good whipping! In our celebrity obsessed so-called modern culture, where young folk wallow in the purient shadow of Mike and Bernie Winters and yet others of that ill-favoured cosmopolitan ilk, we of the Cleaner Chorleywood Campaign are turning the enemies’ guns upon themselves!

Our leafy haven is happily home to many of our leading so-called celebities - plucky patriots all! To my bursting delight Miss Samantha Fox has agreed to lead our first poster campaign. The pert wee thing - one of Dame Natures’ perfect little parlourmaids - features in a pose of patriotic contemplation on a poster which will appear overnight throughout our sleeping township. As I write, Miss Jenkins and Miss Jarvis are stacking sheets in the Morris Traveller, before returning to that cosy cottage in which they share a bed for reasons of economy.

Sprouting like mushrooms in the morning light, these images of British loveliness will reassure the decent and overawe the garlic-eating menace in our midst!