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 ...)