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I’m at work. I’m bored. Make me laugh.

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Trawl Rockall for:

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Joyful climax to urine-soaked London Games

It's been a magnificent week for British Sport, particulary in the capital where patriotic Londoners merrily clinked their glasses and sang songs of victory in heaving pubs on Wednesday evening 6 July until well past traditional closing time after their city's sensational coup in winning the bid to stage the 2012 Olympics. Then, as midnight struck, landlords across the capital winked at their staff and cleared their throats to deliver the two words they'd been fairly bursting to say out loud ever since hearing them whispered over the counter in January during the course of a discreet visit by a cash-laden mandarin from Whitehall.

"Free beer!" the clarion call rang out in every packed hostelry from Chancery Lane to Hendon, from Cheapside to Hampton Wick. "That's right," the beaming publicans were obliged to explain to a sceptical audience. "It's not a wind-up, it's a government-sponsored tank-up. Barrels of amber nectar on the house - all you can drink between now and eight-thirty tomorrow morning, courtesy of the Ministry of Culture, Media and Sport!"

It was the official stamp of approval that pricked the punters' ears. Their quizzical looks turned to broad smiles, thence to uproarious cheers. The bars were besieged by hordes of revitalised patrons determined to ramp up the pace of their liquid intake and make the most of this unprecedented state munificence while it lasted.

Twenty-four hour licensing had been a huge step forward some months earlier, and now it seemed that the liberation of the drinking public was complete. It was hard to believe that the jovial publican pulling at the pump with merry abandon, eager to serve up the first complimentary pint, was the very same minging killjoy who in earlier times had regularly imposed a miserable end to the night on his downtrodden clientèle, forcing his customers to mournfully sip the dregs of a precious last order grudgingly served until he plunged them suddenly into darkness, a chilling prelude to being yanked up by the scruff of the neck and hurled out of the door onto the pavement by one of his hired heavies.

But this was a truly special occasion. The fully subsidised quaffing was no mere celebration but a meticulously planned and co-ordinated booze-up serving a high patriotic purpose. The beer-soaked punters were limbering up for a spectacular event later that morning — Thursday 7 July and the second great sporting occasion to hit the capital in two days after a long barren run of disappointments. This red letter day had been etched indelibly on the minds of all British patriots ever since the gold-plated team of Lord Sebastian Poo, Tessa Bowel and a rash of sporting luminaries had returned victorious from a nerve-wracking conference deep in Taliban-held Afghanistan four and a half years earlier, waving the precious document that granted London exclusive permission to host a forthcoming extravaganza.

It was the professional quality and stirring emotional force of the joint Poo-Bowel presentation to the IAC (International Atrocity Committee) that swept aside a determined challenge from Paris, a city now lapsing into insignificance as it consistently fails to attract either the Olympics or its equally presigious rival, the Atrocity Games. The conciliatory note struck by the leader of the French delegation, the elegant patrician Dominique de Villepin, didn't go down well at all with the brooding, bearded committee members, whose eyes blazed with smouldering hatred as they clutched their automatics, patently itching to fire off a couple of rounds.

Ms Bowel's presentation was a delightful contrast. She treated the committee to a glorious example of British mooning, baring her womanly buttocks with obvious relish - an emphatic gesture familiar to dedicated Bowel-watchers but a deeply shocking affront to her devout Muslim hosts. Determined to strike while the iron was hot, she compounded the insult by delivering the British government's uncompromising yet slightly ludicrous opinion that the IAC chairman himself, the gorgeous six foot two specimen of lean, sinewy Arabic manhood, Mr Osama Bin Laden, was "an evil, nasty, horrible little man, almost as bad as Saddam" and that they would do everything in their power to not only track him down and exterminate him but having failed in that hopeless quest, turn the legendary might of the British armed forces on softer targets throughout the region, making themselves the second most hated country amongst Muslims of all denominations and throughout the Arab world.

"Not bad, not bad," Mr Bin Laden admitted, mulling over the British proposal. "You really deserve to be next in line after New York. Unfortunately the Games have to be planned years in advance. You know the score — bedding down a raft of sleepers in the host nation, checking out the local cellphone providers..." Suddenly those fiery eyes caught sight of Lord Poo crouching in the corner. "And what have you got to say for yourself?" demanded the fearsome committee chairman, reputed to be a bit of a hothead, as he lifted his rifle and pointed it straight at the quaking Lord. He cocked the trigger. "Out with it, Poo! Convince me to grant you the Games!"

The double Olympic gold medallist, famed for those gut-churning runs in the eighties, made his own customary gesture in the back of his pants, shitting himself comprehensively, and yet rose manfully to the challenge, reeling off a list of possible venues for the showcase events and describing how he would bend over backwards to make sure they went off with a bang. He left his trump card for last, a glowing tribute to the incredible enthusiasm that Londoners were already showing for the prospect of hosting the atrocity, and the promise that they would gird their loins, flush out their kidneys and give it their all in a bid to shower the capital in a gushing fountain of blood and urine that the more flat-footed Parisian organisers would never even dream was possible.

"We're the best in the world at watersports, you know," Poo rounded off with a twinkle in his eye.

This tantalising promise clinched the deal. The British party returned home to an ecstatic reception and several more knighthoods. But then the long wait began. The annual festival of carnage did the rounds, starting with New York in 2001 where the local security forces showed tremendous resolve in turning a blind eye to a series of suspicious goings-on, working hand in glove with the IAC delegates to remove any red tape that might have got in the way of a truly awesome spectacle, and one that raised the bar to seemingly impossible heights. Thence to Bali in 2002 and a successful if less spectacular Games, with Madrid in 2004 also aquitting itself tolerably well. Only the more routine Istanbul atrocity in 2003 failed to generate much excitement in the international community or boost the standing of the Turkish host city around the world, causing much soul-searching afterwards in a long drawn-out post mortem that ultimately led to the resignation of the westward-looking mayor, whose shameless commercial involvement with the European infidel on his doorstep had persuaded the IAC to grant his city the Games.

Yet the supreme co-ordinator of worldwide atrocity Osama Bin Laden was becoming ever angrier with each passing year.

"We did our bit," he ranted and raved on the videolink from his cavernous mountain headquarters in the aftermath of Madrid, "but where were the waterworks? It seemed more like a trickle than a flood from where I'm sitting."

The irascible IAC chairman was now so obsessed with this one particular physiological aspect of the response to terror — the barometer as he saw it of a truly successful atrocity — that on the eve of the London Games he put through a final call to Lord Poo, threatening terrible vengeance on the popular peer and his family unless there was a massive late surge in the all-important "wee factor".

"This time I want panty-pissing," he demanded, "and lots of it!"

Lord Poo was unfazed, assuring Mr Bin Laden that four years of meticulous preparation was coming to a head in a perfectly orchestrated climax. He could guarantee a pee spectacular on an awesome scale, far in excess of the golden waterfall that cascaded with such poignant beauty from the upper windows of the twin towers in downtown Manhattan on September 11th 2001, just before the final collapse of their twisted steel frames into the all-enveloping dust of Ground Zero.

"We've been pulling out all the stops from day one," Lord Poo reiterated for the umpteenth time. "We've never lost sight of the golden rule. You know the golden rule, Osama?" (The world-class runner turned slick diplomat had by this time got the measure of his opposite number and knew how to coax him down from his high horse.) "Let's say it together then," he exhorted the terrorist overlord in his most charming telephone manner: "Proper planning promotes piss perfect performance."

Osama was appeased. And so it came to pass that after four and a half years of potty training in mass floodlit demonstrations led by Lord Poo's right-hand man, the herculean ambassador of British watersports Sir Matthew Pissent, possessor of the biggest bladder in Britain, London pub-goers had become highly proficient in the invaluable art of holding their beer. They could hold it for hours, for pint after pint, right through the serious bout of drinking in which they were still engaged long after sunrise on the morning of July 7th as the clock moved slowly round and the frenetic pace of liquid consumption increased, until the bar finally closed and it was time to toddle off to work.

Apart from the unusually large number of bleary-eyed, pasty-faced individuals staggering drowsily through heavily-trafficked streets everything appeared normal in the metropolis at 8.45 am, yet the last piece of a perfectly engineered plan had clicked into place, with thousands of bladders primed and a top-ranking ambassador of sport secreted at each of the four pressure points, waiting for the off and charged with the task of orchestrating the imminent panic-stricken display.

Suddenly an explosion ripped through the air outside Aldgate East tube station. The Olympic non-medallist Paula Radcliffe was out of the trap like a frightened rabbit at the start of her Marathon run to deliver the tragic news to concerned relatives in Ruislip, retiring tired after 200 yards and turning on the waterworks. As she sat on the kerb crying her eyes out hundreds of well-wishers, stoically ignoring the discomfort of their own pissed panties, bent to lift her up by the armpits and shove her on her way. She managed a couple of miles before veering out into the middle of the road for one of her famous piss-stops. Dropping her knickers to reveal a stylishly bald pubis, she watered the open-mouthed crowd with a generous golden spray. "Oh, it's such a relief to be back on form!" she gushed.

Meanwhile in Tavistock Square, Sir Matthew Pissent, pacing up and down outside his hotel in open-fly readiness, heard a loud bang and spurted the vast contents of his outsize bladder high into the air, describing a golden arc from Aldwych in the South to the Caledonian Road in the North, visible for miles around, as screaming victims tumbled from the upper deck of the bus above his head and floated downstream on the rising tide of piss pouring from the waterlogged pants of thousands of startled spectators, their urinary tracts blissfully relaxed by the blast and discharging pint after pint of pent-up wee down their sodden legs and into the swirling open urinal that was London's WC1.

Watching with hand on weapon via satellite link in his secret guest-chamber somewhere in the Saudi royal palace, Osama Bin Laden gave a final few savage jerks on his raw, blistered spam javelin and shot a tumultuous load, simultaneously pissing himself in a delirious moment of double-barrelled pleasure reserved for the most godly of men, spattering the ceiling with a high-octane solution of holy seed, purest Arabic blood and wee that marked the shuddering climax of a truly phenomenal jihad.

Back at the sharp end the incomparable Pissent's fellow Olympian oarsman of yore, Sir Stephen Redgrave wielded bucket and spade outside King's Cross station, catching the excess blood that might be sorely needed for transfusion later and shovelling blackened corpses into a vast open grave that he had carved out of disused railway land outside the old city boundary of 1665 in preparation for a death-toll on the scale of the Great Plague of that year.

The sturdy knight of the realm was slightly out on a limb in seeking to revive those long-suppressed folk memories, unaware that in the mix of watersports and carnage the committee had plumped for a preponderance of the former. Despite his valiant tolling of the bell and chanting of "Ring-a-ring o' rosies" till he was blue in the face only twenty-one customers passed through his hands all day, not quite enough to make the cesspit flow red beneath his feet with the bursting boils of the almost dead, writhing out their last moments of earthly agony.

Last but not least, dutifully posted in the ticket-hall of Edgware Road station, a flashpoint on the Western perimeter, the Games supremo himself Lord Sebastian Poo couldn't help going off-message by a predictable six inches when the first blast of shrapnel flew past his ear. He shat himself once again. It certainly cleared the area in a matter seconds, long before the emergency services arrived, and creased the face of his Lordship into a blissful smile.

"I always said I didn't want to wait for the Games till I was seventy years old and couldn't give a shit anymore," he declared to the first reporter on the scene, his anal muscles still contracting in the delicious aftermath of the giant pant-held turd, "and now I've achieved my ultimate ambition with a real stonker."

It only remained for the Mayor of London himself, professional Londoner to the core, Ken Livingstone, to give the final verdict on a red letter day for the capital. "It's been good for London and good for Londoners," he blubbered with tears in his eyes. "London is right back on the map at the centre of the world, slap bang on the Greenwich meridian where it always belonged. And if you need any more proof of how fuc*king brilliant London really is you've only got to ask my two best mates, Seb and Tess, how many medals us fuc*king wonderful Londoners won for ourselves today."

Here at the London offices of The Rockall Times we wouldn't dream of doubting the Mayor's word. There is proof enough in the very air that we breathe. The abiding stench of concentrated uric acid cloaking our city streets in a pungent haze, inflaming the nose and smarting the eyes for months to come, combined with the noxious fumes of Lord Sebastian's movement wafting in from zone two, bear vivid testimony to our beloved Ken's claim. But as this great city mops up, let us cast a glance none the less at the final medals table for the Atrocity Games 2005, a hugely impressive tally that should keep our chests pumped up with pride and bladders aching with nostalgia until the next great sporting occasion rolls up to take centre stage in the biggest, hippest, most happening city in Christendom seven years hence:

Atrocity Games — Final Medals Table

Year	Host City	Dead	Wounded	Pissed their Pants
2005	London*	65	712	66959
2004	Madrid	191	1464	417
2003	Istanbul	27	187	210
2002	Bali	202	844	1152
2001	New York	2694	6408	13520

*Current estimate