Verily - update soon!

Verily!

I do send my apologies to thee O readers, for my
tardiness in updating this blog.

I have been undertaking an important mission to avenge the honour of Islam in the Carribean and have needed to lie loweth for a bit if you know what I mean.

I can give no more details on the nature of this operation, but let's just say it was related to Pakistan losing in the World Cup because the coach 'choked' at an important juncture.

Ha Ha Ha! I crack myself up, I really. By the sword of Allah, I really am a pisser when I on formeth.

Alright, enough of this frivolity! I am now back in the land of jihad between the two rivers but noth of the sea and slightly to the left of the moutains.

I shall send word of the victoriaes of the mujahideen soon.

World Cup preview

Verily! I send this missive with excitement in my heart and a tingling sensation in my pants, for LO! this week the Ummah have a great opportunity to demonstrate the superiority of Islam over the unwashed infidels.

What is this you say, O Great Mufti? Hast thou advance warning of a courageous strike by a car bomber on a crowded market? Do the wolves of the Mujahideen plan another brave attack on the crusader involving a bomb hidden in a dead dog and left by the side of the road?

No, simple reader, this week brings an occasion far more glorious than that! The cricket World Cup beginneth, in the cursed islands of the Caribbean that lie in the fart stream off the anus of the hideous beast itself, the capital of the Crusaders, the origin of evil, the kountry of the Kufr, America!

Sadly, as my many millions of American readers will know – or most likely not, as they are ignorant fools with skulls thicker than the roofs of my Hizbollah brother’s bunker-buster proof shelters – the US has no chance of making it to the final of said event, where they can be roundly humiliated by an Islamic team like Pakistan, or Bangladesh. OK, Pakistan. For those filthy unwashed Ameri-kufr who claim cricket is a limey fag sport, I invite thee to take a glance in thine own sporting mirror where the entire nation is transfixed by a game where steroid-pumping men with painted faces wear tights and touch each others bottoms at regular intervals.

I imagineth that some of you are wondering why I am so excited about the World Cup, given my traditional opposition to dancing, kite flying, top-spinning, games, sports, hobbies or relaxing pursuits of any type, or even watching twigs float down mountain streams, for these sinful activities deflect attention of the worship of Allah. I even sought guidance from the Emir on my brother in jihad Abu Al-Al Kul-Jay’s constant practising for the defiling of the cross-god whorelings in the megachurch in Topeka, but the Emir did rule that as Kul-Jay intended to perform the defiling as a weapon of war, rather than for personal enjoyment, his relentless practising was considered training for jihad, rather than enjoyment. Methinks I caught the Emir on a good day there, if you know what I mean, as Al-Al seems to enjoy that element of training for jihad a whole lot more than he does the running up steep hills with a backpack full of engine parts bit.

Anyway, following the same logic, I see a victory for an Islamic team like Pakistan or Bangladesh (I know, I know, but I get a good regular donation from a Bangladeshi carpet magnate and don’t want to offend him by openly stating that the flood monkeys are utter shite and have as much chance of winning the thing as the local spastic school does) is as much a victory in the great jihad as Al-Al’s cracking out six or seven one-man shags a day is.

So, here it is, the Great Mufti’s preview of the World Cup –

PAKISTAN – The Lions of Islam! With Allah guiding their arms, powering lofted on-drives over the fence and discreetly taking to the ball with his holy car key in order to extract some movement through the air from the white ball, Pakistan are the safest thing outside of Osama’s cave. Or, more likely, the Kufr will send spies into their midst to foment discord amongst the dressing room of the brothers, leading to a histrionic and embarrassing walkout before the semi finals over a pay dispute. Pah!

ENGLAND – The mewling girlchildren of the Land Of Blair (He Who Bears A Brown Mark Upon His Lips!) have composethed a team largely drawn from people who are not English, as is their way. LO! Their vainglorious media shall talketh up their chances, mostly based around the hideous fat beer-swilling swine Flintoff, and the traitorous wretch Pietersen but I do detect a lack of depth and even more tellingly, steel in their ranks. Lucky to make the semis.

INDIA – Elephant-worshipping sons of whores! Although gifted by Satan with an unnatural talent, their focus on procuring sponsorship contracts with fizzy drink manufacturers and winning the gaudy eye of the Bollywood harlot will distract them from the game at hand, though they will prove a handful on turning tracks. May a djinn take Tendulkar’s form and hideth it under a particularly non-descript rock in the Empty Quarter!

WEST INDIES – The code of Pushtunwali forbids me from speaking ill of the hosts of the tournament, but suffice to say a team drawn largely from expat elephant-worshippers and local Jesus-botherers does not light my fire, as it were.

NEW ZEALAND – Those even keener on growing intimate with livestock than the village boys I encountered in my years of jihad in rural Afghanistan! I was once ordered by my brother in jihad now shackled to a waterboard Khalid Sheikh Muhammad to travel New Zealand and carry-out a strike on a well-known target there that would seize the world’s attention. Needless to say, I did fail in my mission.

SOUTH AFRICA – A nation devoted to racial and religious equality is anathema to me, but I recognise they have mangy curs capable of defeating any who cross their vile path. A good shout for the final if thou art a betting man, which I hope for thy sake you aren’t, as you are now condemned to the fiery pit for all eternity if you are.

AUSTRALIA – The drunken, oafish little brothers of the kufr coalition that marches to its inevitable defeat with every day! Will miss the great blonde conjurer Warne and his bag of infernal tricks, but are still packed with genuine winners from the openers right down to number 11. He Who Must Be Feared, Abu Pon-Ting, could do anything on his day, as could his arch lieutenant Gilchrist, whose very surname offends me. May have peaked too early in the Ashes series, but must still be considered favourites.

SRI LANKA – More elephant-worshippers and Buddha-venerated. Not smitted hard enough by Allah’s watery fist of tsunami vengeance. A decent side, but don’t have the full package.

THE REST – Wasteth not my time! Bangladesh? Scotland? Ireland? Be off with you, I have better things to do, like plan our upcoming raid on the disabled kid’s orphanage, a mission that surely shall bring great honour and plaudits to those who fight under the green banner of radical Islam!

Likely semi finalists –

Australia, Pakistan, South Africa, West Indies.

Final –

Australia v West Indies.

Australia to win by a couple of wickets or around 50 runs.

Verily! Death to Tim Henman

Verily,

Oh ye readers! I have receivethed many calls for the story of the time I tried to kidnap Tim Henman and trade his life for the freedom of every Muslim in jail anywhere in the world, no matter what their crime to be told, and now, Allahu Akbar!, the hour of truth is upon us.

Look upon the hideous visage of Henman! See the evil that dwells in his eyes! Imagine the hatred for the Ummah that lurks in that black, shriveled heart!

The story begins, as is so often, with myself lying in a cave in the early hours of the morning, being kept awake by my brother in jihad Abu Al-Al-Kul-Jay’s relentless practicing for the defiling of the cross-God whorelings in the mega-church in Topeka. Al-Al had convinced himself that the invasion of Infidel’s Homeland was imminent, so had upped his training regime, which now meant he practiced for five hours a night without rest.

As smoke rose from his sleeping-bag due to the friction, I began to reflect on how many of my brothers in jihad were locked up in jails around the world. Of course, I had been in many of these jails, and experienced the tortures held within from the Egyptian specialty of allowing baby crocodiles to feed upon ones testicles, to the more sophisticated American attempts to drive one insane by playing crappy hip hop at horrendous volumes for hours on end. Sadly, that one backfired on my kufr captors as I was the only sand wigger in my village, and thus enjoyed the 12-hour stretches of Jay-Z and the Pharcyde blasted into my cell.

The idea came to me: I would gather a small force of trusted brothers, cunning as the sandfox, lithe as the Barren Warthog of the Empty Quarter, and we would travel to the very heart of the lands of the kufr, and seize a figure so mighty, so loved, so central to the operation of the sick society, that all the West would fall down wailing and gnashing their pointed teeth in order to have the great one back unharmed. Thus would I secure the release of every Muslim held in jail anywhere in the world.

There was only one man in all of the West who did fit the bill: Tim Henman. Scoff ye may now in 2007 O readers, but only a few pages back in the great book of our lives, and the notion was sound. It was the summer of 2002 and Henmania gripped the infidel island of Britain. While good people should have been singing the praises of the Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him), instead, their tongues would not be stilled for the desire to prattle about Tiger Tim and his final bid for Wimbledon glory. And were it not for Goran Ivanesevic and his booming serve-volley game, Henman’s fame would have secured the release of my brothers.

My plan was this: as my brothers created a diversion by riding a cow down Oxford Street, I would have leapt down from the stands – a quick note here: while I am prepared to sacrifice everything for jihad, I was forced to part with well over £1250 to secure a center court seat for the men’s final, which hurt worse than the steel past fork introduced up my jacksy by the Syrian mukhbarat when I was but a jihadiling back in the day. When the Caliphate is restored, I will have to put some very serious thinking into what punishment shall befall ticket touts – mowed down the ballboys and ballgirls in a hail of holy vengeance, and then seized Henman.

With the cameras of the world upon my, I would have issued my demand: release all the Muslims in the world’s jails within one hour, or I will behead Henman. Had they not met my demand, I would indeed have decapitated Henman there and then on centre-court before, in what I thought would have be a nice touch, serving the severed head up into the royal box using his own racket.

But sadly, Henman’s inability to hold his nerve in a Wimbledon semi-final cost me my chance – and saved him his life.

Next week: done Iraq and Afghanistan? Why not beat the crowd and head to a jihad off the beaten track, like on Moro, or southern Thailand? Mail the Mufti for information on cheap flights and accommodation. Offer closes end of Ramadan. Terms and Conditions apply.

From mewling manchild to Mighty Mufti - Part The First!

Verily,

As you can see from the many comments that have greeted my incipient venture onto the Infidel’s Superhighway, my loyal readers would like details of my life before becoming The Great Mufti.

Zionist curs! Crusader spies! I have dispatched my loyal fedayeen to hunt you down! You obviously desire this information so that you may imprison me again in the Guantanamo! Well, know this! I fear not your cages nor your so-called interrogators, nor the soiled panties of Ashlee Simpson that were draped over my face in an attempt to humiliate me! A punishment? I can still taste their sweet musk upon my lips!

Anyway, The Great Mufti is not a vain man, so he will tell the story of his life here on the Internet, up to and including everything that has happened until now … no, now … no, now … heh heh, forgive the Mufti; he was just playing a little game with you there. I saw that Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind the other night (I know, I know, its like 3 years old but the ‘new releases’ section of the Lashkar Gul video shop still has Fast Times At Ridgemont High on it, so throw me a frickin’ bone here will you? Even the fact that I am still using Austin Powers catchphrases shows how shite our video shop is) and quite enjoyed its innovative messing around with time and space and blah blah blah, although I would quite happily let fall the sword of Allah on the bare neck of Jim Carrey if only to still his perpetually gurning mug.

So, as a callow youth, I was just like any other child of a Bradford kebab shop owner, busying my days with cricket, school, studies of my religion, and the taunting of local strays with a pointed stick until they reached such a frenzy that they would bite parts of themselves off in crazed frustration.

One day, when I was preparing a double meat with extra garlic sauce and chips for a neighborhood drunkard, another man, one from the old country, with the most luxuriant beard I had ever seen, and piercing eyes, came into our shop, wittily named by my father “Bradford’s Best Kebab Shop.”

The man watched as I stroked the blade through the soft, giving manufactured lamb meat that we sold to our inevitably inebriated customers at a large mark-up (and more often than not, with a special bacterial addition!) and muttered: “I see you have a good, smooth stroke my boy. Come here and I will tell you of jihad.”

Just I was about to leave to hear these fantastic tales, my father returned from the betting shop where he had gone to lay a small wager upon the outcome of that night’s episode of Robot Wars. My father was thoroughly assimilated and had embraced the deviant ways of the infidel wholeheartedly. To watch him hooting and jabbering with excitement like a primitive ape as his favoured contraption won the day on the satanic Robot Wars program drove a skewer through the very centre of my young heart.

“Oi you, beardy! Clear out and don’t fuckin’ come back. We don’t want your type round here poisoning the kiddies minds with your bullshit about ‘jihad’ and ‘holy wars’ and the mujahid donkey of Baluchistan that can shoot rockets out of its arse and all that flim flam. Take your fuckin’ robes and piss off back to Tattooine where you belong,” shouted my father, brandishing a bottle of cheap cider he was evidently planning to consume in order to maximise the excitement of Robot Wars.

Gathering himself up with the dignity that I have come to associate with my brothers in jihad, the older man rose to his full height before issuing his riposte:

“YEAH? YEAH? Anytime you cunt! Name your fuckin’ time and place! I’ll fuckin’ have you! Peace. Allahu Akbar!”

A brief and unsatisfactory scuffle ensued before my father forced the bearded man from his property. He complained about a lingering “stench of camel shit” in the shop for the remainder of that afternoon, and during the evening rush loudly spoke about “them gypo cunts who was in here before stinking up the joint” in order to allay any suspicions our customers may have had.

Later that night, someone came and placed human faeces in a paper bag on our doorstep, lit the paper bag, rang our doorbell and ran away. As my father was stupefied by drink after his winnings on Robot Wars, I answered the door. Seeing the blazing package, I knew it was a trap. Instead of stamping on the package and covering my foot in faeces while also sustaining minor burns, I merely pushed it aside with the broom into the gutter, and doused the small blaze with the garden hose. As I finished, I heard a rustle in the darkness, as a tall, robed figure moved away from a corner and down the street at speed.

The next day, as I was on my way to school, Simple Iqbal, who had been cursed by Allah for his father’s wickedness (although my own father said that it wasn’t wicked to buy a house directly underneath high voltage power lines, just plain fuckin’ stupid) came up to me bearing a note. Patting him on the head, and sending him on his way, I opened the note and read it –

“Thou did see through my trap well, young Jedi, er, er, I mean jihadi. You have the makings of a great warrior for Islam! Even now, a great battle rages in the land of Afghanistan, where the godless Russian crusaders seek to impose their ways of irrigation, universal health care and education for women on the good sons of that Islamic land. We must not let this stand. If you would fight for your God, give unto Simple Iqbal your agreement, and I shall take care of the rest. Signed: Abu El-Traain.”

Retrieving Simple Iqbal from the hedge into which he had wandered after I took the note from him, I told him to go back unto whomever had sent him on this life-changing errand, and tell them I desired the path of the holy warrior.

NEXT WEEK: To the land of jihad on the back of a giant goshawk!

Jihads - I've had a few

Verily!

One of the best things about being a leading international jihadist is the wealth of stories you accumulate to tell down the pub and impress people. What’s that I hear you say? The pub? What would the Great Mufti be doing at a pub? Isn’t that haram?

LO! Imbeciles! How dare thee question the judgment of the Great Mufti? Yes, alcohol … the infidel’s potion … is banned by the holy Qur’an, but show me the verse where it says “And YEA! The believers may not skip down the local for a few minutes peace and quiet and a non-alcoholic beverage with the lads when thy four wives start nippething the ear about thy not mowing the lawn since one has returned from the hajj?” No, it doesn’t. Question my knowledge of the holy Qur’an one more time and there’ll be big trouble in little Riyadh.

Anyway, there’s one story the boys down at my local Wahhabist watering hole love more than the others – the story of my first suicide bombing. As many of you know, yours truly holds the record for the most successful suicide bombings in one campaign: four, last year in Iraq.

As is always the way with these things, it’s your first suicide bombing that’s the hardest. There we were one day, the wolves of the Mujahideen, the brave soldiers of Allah; those who fear no man, and embrace death as a friend, wondering which target to strike. An informer had told us a that a contingent of heavily armed American and British commandos were gathering in the main square of the town, while just outside the field of jihad, a convoy of hardened Kurdish peshmerga would be driving past on their way to the hated, secular godless lands in the north. The informer also let it be known that a large party of mentally deficient wheelchair-bound Shia children were being taken on their annual visit to the market, where they would get the one piece of chocolate allowed them per year.

As I drove to the market, 500 pounds of high explosive in the back of the truck, I reflected on what selfless and courageous men are attracted to the life of jihad. Not for us the drudgery of work and raising families and looking after elderly relatives as they drool and soil themselves and descend into a final madness whereupon they hoot and jabber about the old days and lament the passing of their neighbour Iqbal who was run over by a melon cart when they were but seven and blah blah blah, no, instead we jihadis take the harsh road of spending all day with our mates doing what we enjoy most: slaying the infidel wherever he lurks.

Anyway, back to my first suicide bombing. As I approached the market I could see the Shia weasels gamboling about in their wheelchairs, exulting in their heresy, their keepers feeding them chocolate that should rightly have been in the mouths of devout Sunni children. This made me angry, more angry even than the time when I got into my sleeping bag after a night attack in the mountains of Chechnya only to find a ‘wet spot’ from where Abu Al-Al had been ‘practicing’ for his long planned defiling of the cross god whorelings at the mega church in Topeka. He claimed he needed to use my sleeping bag as his had gone ‘rigid and uncomfortable’ with all the practicing, but I digress.

So angry was I that these Shia vermin thought they could take their disabled children out for a day at the market and sweets – THE CHEEK OF THEM! – that I swerved around the corner in order to get to the market and detonate my bomb even quicker, so these swine would not pollute the Earth even one second longer. Unfortunately, I was not wearing my seatbelt, and the driver’s side door had come ajar, meaning I was flung from the wheel a good 120 yards before the truck hit a mobile phone accessory/kebab/beheading DVD vendor on Victory To The Brave Street. Luckily though, even though my truck didn’t plough into the Shia scum as planned, the shockwave of the explosion caused many of the Shia retards to be shaken from their wheelchairs, leaving them flapping on the ground like drunken fish, or upturned turtles, which caused much amusements for the brothers recording my attack for posterity.

The Zionist cur and his docile American servant have distributed a clearly fake tape that purports to show me parking the van outside Uncle Habib’s Phone/Kebab/Atrocity Warehouse and fleeing like a mangy dog. This is of course the product of Photobazaar and the other tricks employed by these lying sandworms. If you do come across any copies of this propaganda, be sure to destroy it lest they fall into the hands of impressionable youngsters not as aware of the tricks of our enemies as we are.

Up next: the time I planned to take Tim Henman hostage in order to trade his life for that every Muslim held in jail in the world.

Verily! You are in the presence of the Great Mufti

Verily!

Welcome to my blog. If you are an unwashed kufr cross-god worshipper, or a Zionist cur, or a follower of the Hindu elephant god abomination, or a ziggurat worshipping Zoroastrian, or one who has absorbed the lies of the Buddha and his filthy fellow traveller Confucius, or an idolatrous follower of Baal, Moloch or Rephran, or if you follow the drunken oafs that are the Norse gods, or if thou makest sacrifices to Diana, Juno, Jupiter, or even worse, wear the mark of Zeus, be off with you, lest the sword of Allah fall on your bare neck, for this blog is for Muslims only.

And let's get one thing straight, this is for proper Muslims. So if you are a hip-hop star who claimed to be Muslim in order to win some street cred prior to 9/11, but keep the ol' crescent moon tattoo on your shoulder quiet post the glorious martyrdom operation of 9/11, then this blog is not for you. Similarly, if you are Muslim when you fight the local kids at the beach, but a bit less so when the vodka Red Bulls are flowingly freely at strip bars, then again, scamper off before the Great Mufti decided to crush you like desert beetle you are.

This blog is for 100 per cent, straight up, eight trey gangsta Islamic fundamentalists, yo!

Read here of daring tales of bravery in the lands of jihad!

Come for the latest fatwas and clerical rulings on issues of the day -

Today's ruling - in response to the vile Lohan/Spiers episodes, women found to be going 'commando' under their burqas shall be placed in front of a wall and the wall shall be toppled upon them by a bulldozer, rather than face 156 lashes and a partial stoning, as previously was done. The purchase or construction of the wall is the responsibility of the male relatives of the criminal woman.

This blog shall be updated every Saturday, and occasionally in between if the situation allows/demands it. Given I am often somewhat indisposed to posting by the very nature of jihad - despite what Time magazine might have you believe, we don't get wireless in our cave warrens - my brother in jihad Abu Al-Al-Kul-Jay will sometimes do my duties for me.

Abu Al-Al is a true lion of the Mujahideen, having vowed not to rest until the crusaders have been defeated in the Land Between The Two Rivers And South of The Mountains But North Of The Sea and driven back to their homeland, whereupon we Mujahideen shall spill out from out holy jihadi submarines (a work in progress) and rampage across the land slaying the kufr wherever he lurks, and imposing sharia law on the most corrupt and depraved of all the nations.

Al-Al has a particular dislike of churches and often speaks enthusiastically of how he shall defile churches by seizing young cross-god whorelings and taking their honour on the altar of these houses of blasphemy. Once, on a flight from Boston to New York (not THAT one, silly!) we saw a promotional videogram presentation for a mega-church in Topeka, Kansas, where many blonde-haired and blue-eyed young cross god whorelings were pictured singing the Satanic lullabies of their false religion.

Leaning over to me, with a fierce glint in his eye, Abu Al-Al-Kul-Jay whispered - "This is the church I shall defile first, and these cross god whorelings shall be my slaves!"

I have to admit, I was a bit disturbed by it at the time, but LO!, every man fights jihad in his own way, and Abu Al-Al has chosen his path.

On many a clear morning on the lands of jihad, I have awoken early for the extra prayers I perform - a good Muslim should pray five times a day, but I like to squeeze in up to 20 sessions if I can - and have been happily sharpening my good beheading knife while listening to the rhythmic rustle of Al-Al in his sleeping bag 'practising' for the day he can defile the cross god whorelings in the mega church in Topeka. I tell you, when we do get to Topeka, the kufr fathers had best kill their daughters well in advance of our arrival, because Abu Al-Al has certainly been getting plenty of practice in!

With that image in my mind, I bid you farewell and urge you never to stray from the path of jihad.

Although I consider him a bit moderate in his views, one of the more tolerant of we jihadis, I shall leave you with the words of my mentor, Abdullah Azzam - "No dialogue, no negotiations, no protests, no marches, no signatures, no petitions, no effigy burnings; jihad and the rifle alone."

(You'll note he doesn't mention blogging ...)