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.