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Saturday, 30 January 2010

image for Inspector Morose and the Liar from Edinburgh Inspector Morose's vintage car

Morose sat in his home drinking whisky and listening to Verdi's 'Tutti Frutti Butti Call' opera, wondering why someone had come up with a good idea for a parody of his police career but had then ruined it by filling it up with adolescent drivel.

'Probably an adolescent', he deduced, and raised his glass to the portrait of Sherlock Holmes that had been hanged on his wall in 1887 for stealing a thruppeny bit from Marks & Reinventors. 'Si si si, rime rime rime rime, pais pais pais pais pais' came from the opera's chorus, and briefly stopping the opera to send the cast and orchestra out into the driving snow outside the detective picked up the notes he had been reading.

'Anthony Blair, MP. Lawyer, married with 18 children, converted to Roman Catholicism because 'any crime I do can be forgiven instantly by a priest, such as carpet-bombing Iraqi cities and mass-murdering thousands of men, women and children for oil to please my American employers'. Interests: Being uninteresting. Language: Saying 'Um' and 'Er' a lot. Previous crimes: Doing an illegal property deal with an Australian fraudster, destroying the Labour Party along with Neil Kinnochio.'

'Blair is due to appear before the courts in London accused of mass murder', and this was why Inspector Morose had been given this case by his superior, Chief Inspector Clueless, and he was just looking into the air in a ham-actory sort of way when his doorbell rang.

'Hello', he said into the phone, 'will you please stop phoning me up, if I wanted doorbells ringing me up and not taxing my braincells I'd buy a Davina McColl 'Small Brain' bell. Now bugger off, I have a case to work on!'

After hours of sitting looking moody and listening to operas and generally being a boring depressive git, Morose fell asleep like many widowed men in his chair and was only awoken the next day by the merry cheeping of a Geordie sidekick at his window. 'Ah, Lewis', Morose muttered morbidly, 'I suppose you'd better come in, you Geordie token working class idiot', and soon Sergeant Lewis had managed to pick Morose's lock in his front door and was sitting in his living room.

'Look, sir', Lewis said, 'ah know it's noon of mah business, like, but -' 'Oh, shut up!', Morose barked at him like a particularly miserable dog with a bad case of manic depression, 'we must go to a pub, that will help.' 'Sir?' 'Come on, you proletarian moron, The Suicide Arms has the best best bitter in Oxfordshire', and soon the pair were travelling towards that hostelry on Morose's dark red 1970s skateboard at 15 miles per hour. At the pub Lewis bought eighteen pints of Old Scarecrow Barrett's Best Bitter, and soon the two were playing the pub's trivia machine.

'No, no, no, no, Lewis! It was Alan Devonshire who was the only English cap to never have played for a football team until he became an adult professional player! Now go and get another 18 pints of Barrett's!', and after 36 pints of that ale that smelt slightly of a fishmonger that had had a rather interesting time with Kylie Minogue,

Morose announced: 'I have solved the mystery of the liar from Edinbury. It'sh - it wash eashy, Lewish.' 'Really, sir?' Yesh. Tony Bliar - hah! - ish a war criminal and a mash, a mashed potato.' 'OK'. 'Do Geordiesh really shpeak like that, or ish it all put on, Lew Lewish?'

'Why aye, sir, ah divn't kna if it's ull a total fake or not.' 'Well, never mind that, I feel like a US President right now.' 'You mean like a child that is permanently drunk and grins a lot like - well, like a child, sir?' 'No, I mean I feel that my job is a complete washte of time. What do American Preshidentshes actually do, Louie?'

'Ah have no idea, sir, but shouldn't we -' 'Yes, Lewis, we should now go to Edinburg to confront the war crime hisself, Senor Antonio Bleary memory! Let's go!', and Lewis paid the bill with his children's pocket money then followed Inspector Morose out into the pub's skateboard park.

'On second thoughts, Lewis', Morose said to him, 'even if we arrest Blair and bring him to court for war crimes he'll just get a slap on the wrist from his Freemason pals at the bench and will carry on earning millions in America saying 'Um' and acting and talking like a 10-year old child.'

'Americans admire such people, as they're so much more intelligent than Americans are and can speak English correctly. Unlike you, Lewis, ha ha ha ha.' 'Well, sir, ah don't think that's called for, ye kna.'

'Lewis, you're an imbecile, a moron, a clown, a simpering yes-man with no brains or toughness and with less knowledge of the outside world than a seagull. You'd make a great US President!', and the two skated away into the distance as the credits rolled, and that taking-itself-too-seriously music played.

On next week's 'Inspector Morose' the detective will investigate the death of the importance of the United States of America, a country that elects people as their head of state that are either drug addicts, alcoholics or movie stars, and who have the combined brain cells of a brain-damaged caterpillar.

And can't write satire, and burst into tears and censor every second article here that does what every adult outside of America does - laughs at the feeble USA. At least Americans don't have 'Inspector Morose' on their television screens - it might be too adult for them.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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