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It’s a very happy New Year indeed for the Brighton branch of Ask A Drunk, who brought their campaign of pointless intimidation and terror to a climax this week with their long-awaited destruction of the historic West Pier.

Branch secretary Edgar Whittingstone (99) was all smiles (or they may just have been surgical scars) as he told reporters:

‘We felt we could no longer stand idly by. Unfortunately it was the only thing we were trained for. So rather than set out a programme or embrace an ideology or anything unpleasant like that we just decided to make a nuisance of ourselves and transform Brighton into a hell for man and beast.’

The branch scored an early success by persuading Julie Burchill to live in Brighton.

Their long struggle to fill the Marina with unpleasant nouveaux-riches faux-nautical wankers with disintegrating third marriages has been a huge triumph.

Future projects include replacing water with Golden Syrup throughout the Brighton Aquarium, firing the Royal Pavilion into orbit as the first Residential Nursing Space-Station for Impoverished Sussex Gentlefolk, and continually ringing Francis King’s doorbell and running away.

Local organisations have been quick to fight back. On Boxing Day the Brighton Civic Society held an all-nude Gala Commination Service and Plea For Divine Assistance on the promenade, beseeching Almighty God to destroy Ask A Drunk by sending four hundred tidal waves to obliterate Brighton entirely.

Organiser Karl-Heinz Von Lunatick (92), best known as Ivor Novello’s body double in the disembowelling sequence in Merry Vagabonds, My Dearie! (1931), described the ceremony as ‘a measured and proportionate response to the indescribable evil of Ask A Drunk.’

He went on to describe an adjacent beach hut as ‘a colossal malignant radioactive spider, squirting its oceans of corrosive pus into the faces of a billion naked Filipino babies.’

What news from other branches of Ask A Drunk?

― Rex (using his other email address) (Bollard), Tuesday, 31 December 2002 20:28 (twenty-two years ago)

New Year? I refuse to recognise any calendar shoved in front of me by whatever trained ape and "civil authority" dares try. If one were immortal, which one is, one would laugh like Linford after a particularly nifty sprint at time and its tyranny of whence. What are clocks but particularly vicious alien parasites hiding on our walls in the guise of a timekeeping machine? Fuck clocks. Burn clocks.

Mankind must take stock on this turning point in lcd displays and ice cold knee tremblers and refocus our attention to our stated goal. How are we to build a rocket so large and dangerous we can tear our sun apart.

― Lynskey (Lynskey), Wednesday, 1 January 2003 00:20 (twenty-two years ago)

I'll tell you when I've finished forcing myself on underage girls at Ormskirks Clock Tower.

― Jarlr'mai (jarlrmai), Thursday, 2 January 2003 09:07 (twenty-two years ago)

Clocks?
Hideous things, they are. Invented by the Devil you know. Horrid bastard, that one.
There we were, happy and rested, frolicking in the fucking daisys and the next thing you know we're "keeping track of time".
I'm with Lynskey...fuck clocks.
When my beer's empty, I know it's time for another and I don't need a damn clock for that.

― Zen Clown (Zen Clown), Friday, 3 January 2003 21:29 (twenty-two years ago)

Fuck calendars too. The months keep changing the number of days and they all have girly-sounding names. May and June and...What? They are the heartbeats of Mother Nature? Fuck Druids too.

― Zen Clown (Zen Clown), Saturday, 4 January 2003 04:31 (twenty-two years ago)

No, no, I suggest some sort of selective pestilence, instant and vicious, possibly airborne. We can also sell them half decent medicine when they start dying in droves.

― Lynskey (Lynskey), Saturday, 4 January 2003 21:59 (twenty-two years ago)

Just a thought.

― Lynskey (Lynskey), Saturday, 4 January 2003 21:59 (twenty-two years ago)

How about something more pervading, more destructive, more vicious than any lifeform known to Man. How about a perverted Idea? How about something like Paul unleashed upon the world when he converted Theophilus?
If, and I'm not saying it can be done, we could convince the time keepers that they had it all backwards, we could stop time. Hell, the Christians halted intelligence for a while and some religions have brought it to a dead stop.
I say start a new religion. Anti-time.
It's no more idiotic than what the world embraces now.

― Zen Clown (Zen Clown), Sunday, 5 January 2003 04:29 (twenty-two years ago)

I'll tell you when I've finished forcing myself on underage girls at Ormskirk's clock tower

As of time of writing he's still at it. Come on Jim, it's half-nine in the morning and it's fucking freezing

― Matt (Matt), Thursday, 9 January 2003 09:32 (twenty-two years ago)

one month passes...

One or two readers may have considered my earlier description of Brighton life a trifle unrealistic or exaggerated. Oh, the naïvety! I’m pleased to report that as part of Brighton’s With Age Comes… community project an 87-year-old stuntman called The Great Omani will be setting fire to himself on March 8th. His real name is Ron Cunningham and according to Ananova he gave his farewell performance last year, but obviously you can’t keep a good maniac down.

The Great Omani is hereby appointed Perpetual President of the Brighton branch of Ask A Drunk.

― Rex (Rex), Thursday, 20 February 2003 03:03 (twenty-two years ago)

Lynskey, surely Druids die in groves?

― Jarlr'mai (jarlrmai), Thursday, 20 February 2003 09:50 (twenty-two years ago)

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