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.