Yuku free message boards

Hope you don't mind, but last year the Nottingham Evening Post asked for suggestions for a latter day Robin Hood. Modesty forbids me naming the winning entry, but...
'There can only be one latter day Robin Hood and that man has to be good old Gordon Brown. He does not rob the rich to give to the poor; he robs everybody. Picture the scene in the hallowed halls of the Palace, Westminster of course. There stands Gordon in his tartan tights, the Bruin clan naturally, small cheques - or as you Americans spell it - checks.Regulation holes at the knees. Peasant chic,' You'll all be wearing it soon if I become P.M,' says Gordon. 'Pre- menstrual, do you mean sir?' asks his faithful assistant, little John Prescott. 'Don't call me sir, it's Sir Boss to you.' A tartan titfer with matching blouson completes the picture. On his dainty feet, Gordon wears green shoes; the toes of which are turned upwards. Being the spendthrift that he is, he never threw away his winkle-pickers from the 1960's. The green is mould.
In accordance with his Budget, Gordon has obtained the best of both worlds, two for the price of one. Because his faithful assistance is not only little John, but right 'uck too.*
'You've got some filthy habits, little John,' says Gordon as he watches him devour another venison pie, spilling gravy down the front of his brown woolen habit. John/right 'uck wears his open toed sandals, complete with that most British of fashion accessories, grey woollen socks.'Anyway, just why do they call you little John?' asks Gordon. And without hesitation, John whips his habit above his head, revealing his off-white Marks and Sparks double-gusset tights. 'Oh I see, or rather I don't,' remarks Gordon.
Just then the door to Teflon Tiny Bloor's office opens. He is holding something in his hands. 'Right, I've got it,' shouts Tiny.'It's an early-day motion, permission from Kate Bush to invade Nottingham.' 'Looks like a pile of c..p to me,' says Gordon. 'Well don't blame me,' replies Tiny. 'Baby Theo isn't quite potty trained yet.' 'Why?' asks the ever astute right 'uck/little John double act. 'Why what?' asks Gordon. 'Why are we invading Nottingham, their meat pies are horrible.' 'Because,' says Tiny, 'They reckon they have the real Robin Hood. And they've got W.M.Ds. Yes, exactly, Weapons of Medieval Design.' 'And just how are we going to finance this escapade?' asks little John. 'Ha that's the clever bit,' replies Tiny. 'Gordon is going to sing. Give John a few verses of Kinmont Willie, Gordon.' 'What key would you like it inTiny?' asks Gordon. Number ten as promised,' answered Tiny, his fingers crossed behind his back. Gordon started, his dulcet tones sounding like a cat with a strangulated hernia. 'Oh have ye nae heard of the fause Sakelde. Oh have ye nae heard of the keen Lord Scrope.' John had nae heard of either of them , but he had heard enough, and he hawked a quid, which stuck to the brim of Gordon's fedora. Doors opened along the corridor, money was thrown in to the passageway, with shouts of, 'Here's five pound to go away. Tenner to shut up. Fifty quid to kill yourself,' said the Maggie Thatcher ventriloquist's dummy lurking in a corner.
And so Gordon took the advice and retreated to the depths of Sherwood Forest where he is still to be heard, plucking his little instrument and exerting money from everyone with his hideous singing. Why do you think it's called a lute?
Gordon stands amongst the hollies belting out his own favourite.
'If I could make a wish,
I'de tax you all,
There's nothing I wouldn' V.A.T.
All cigarettes, all light, all sound,
Nothing would ever escape from me.
And some times I'll even tax the air that you breath,
Just you watch me,
I'll even tax the air that you breeeeeath.
*For our American friends, Prescott used to be a boxer. He once hit a guy with a right hook for throwing an egg at him.