The Dead Synapses Society

OPEN LETTER:

To:

Dennis Smith, Head Master
Elton John, Sports Director
The Our Lady and Covenant School of Kent

Dear Mr Smith and Mr John,

I am very disappointed, indeed shocked with your decision to apologise for your girls basketball victory last week. Just what happened to all that Christian school spirit you showed as you cheered your team to a 150-0 victory over the team from the school for children with learning disabilities? You didn't question your team coaches decisions then. You didn't ask him to pull the starters when it was a mere 58-0 or 88-0 game. No, you cheered right until the end and thanked the Lord for giving you such a clear victory.

No it wasn't until the media-slamistofascists condemned you and the defeatocrats started sending you emails that you changed your tune. Then, all of a sudden, you were apologetic about your victory.

Gordon Brown wouldn't have apologised. Even Maggie Thatcher wouldn't have apologised. And Lord knows, your own MP, The Prince of Darkness Mr Howard, wouldn't have apologised. They'd have framed it as a great victory over the forces of dyslexia and painted the opposing school as a grave and vital threat to everything we hold dear. Just like they and their predecessors did when we defeated the seemingly unstoppable superpowers of Aden-South Yemen and Iraq.

And they'd have found a way to associate my school with the most evil and vile threat of all, condoms. Just like the Apostle Paul did in his epistle about the Trojans.

So now you've learned your lesson. Victory doesn't come from simply crushing a weak opponent on the field of battle. You need to build them up first with a good PR campaign. You need to turn them into the worst thing since Satan. Only then, will your win become a victory.

Heterosexually yours,

Tel.

Miss Cherry Tasker, eleven-and-three-quarter years old, and all of four foot nine in her white Nike trainers, leaves middle-aged men panting to keep up when it comes to surfing the Net. Her proud mum, Mrs Jordan Tasker, told us that her two teenage daughters are living proof that unrestricted Internet access is not only safe, but also essential to a child's education and development.

As she explained to me: "When my girls first started surfing the Internet, we had to turn the PC on and move that ratty mouse thing around for them, but they soon got the hang of it. Now Glade (aged thirteen-and-a-half) even has her own blog, though my husband did wonder if her bedroom ceiling was the best place for her new webcam. Glade explained that it's something to do with "Bluetooth reception".

"Glade didn't care how she looked until she discovered the Internet," gushed Mrs Tasker, "but now she wears dead sexy knickers, has started shaving her legs and uses an electric toothbrush. At least I think that's what she does otherwise why would she need so many batteries?"

"Cherry’s just the same," added her proud Dad, Geoff, 'mad dog', Tasker. "We bought her one of them lap dog computers last Christmas so she could have a little privacy when she's chatting to her mates on the Net."

"My little girls are making friends right across the world," continued Mrs Tasker enthusiastically, "and Glade has a very special friend called Daz Lovejoy.

I think it's such a sweet name. From what she says, he adores children and seems ever so fond of her. Cherry's been sending him tons of pictures of herself, but she's so shy she locks herself in the loo with her webcam to take them."

"Yeah, Daz is so thoughtful," agreed Mr Tasker "Last week he took Cherry out for an ice-cream. I think she must have overdone it, because when she got in, her hair was smothered in ice cream and her face was really sticky. Then she threw up all over Glade. But Glade was very good about it. She massaged her sister's tummy while they chatted to Daz on the Net. I think Glade must have felt a bit sick too, because when I popped into their bedroom she was massaging her own tummy with her Harry Potter Wand and moaning quietly to herself. Cherry said Lovejoy's invited them both to a 'Teen Come Fest' on her thirteenth birthday. Isn't that great?

I'm not sure what a 'Teen Come Fest' is, but she says he's bought them some smashing outfits and offered to pay their train fares and everything. "

"Both girls are getting a fantastic education on the Net," enthused Mr Tasker, "Cherry's English has improved no end. At first she used to ask us to explain unfamiliar words like ' double penetration', 'cyborgasm', 'facials' and 'shower', but me and the missus believe in kids finding stuff out for themselves. Now they're teaching us things, know what I mean? That Internet is dead cool. I've even heard you can book cheap flights to Ibiza on it"

I tried to speak to the little girls themselves, but their parents think that since their passports and teddy bears are missing, they may have left the country for a short holiday abroad with their friend Daz.

"Christ I knew it was over when I saw the pictures of her with that Action Man bloke on the front page of FHM," he sobbed.

Unfotunately the bombshell dropped last Sunday, when Barbie was photographed in the back garden of her dream holiday home with Action Man after she had stripped him down to his blue plastic pants and allegedly 'ridden him like a two-timing, cock-hungry 6th Form slut on crack.'

Despite the overwhelming evidence of her adultery, Ken told me he still tried to make amends.

"I told her we could work it out and everything would be OK again," he sobbed, "but when I saw she had a drink in her hand, I knew I was going to get hurt."

"Kids think that in the adverts when she sits on the sun lounger of her Dream Holiday Home with a cocktail glass, it's just fruit juice, but when we filmed most of those adverts she was too drunk to even stand," revealed the nine-inch-high-star in a broken voice.

"What kids didn't see was that druken tart taking it up the ass like a two-bit hooker from the entire twenty-eight man crew every time the cameras stopped rolling. But it was when she came home that the real trouble started.

She would scream at me, saying that we were through, and slap me around before holding a magnifying glass to my face in the midday sun for five minutes. Being an inanimate doll, I was unable to move myself out of the heat, which made my face go all black and melty," wept the pint-sized closet case.

"I thought that my modeling career was over, and that the scars would never heal, but luckily a replacement doll was bought, and I sit here before you today a new man!"

And the evil Barbie's cruel torture didn't stop at facial melting. The Blonde black widow regularly scarred Ken both physically and emotionally just to amuse herself.

"Once, when she had been snorting castor sugar, I tried to talk some sense into her and get her to quit," he whined. "So she gave me to the dog who ran round the house with me in its mouth before burying me in the garden.

"After several months I began to hallucinate, and believed I was dead.

It was only by chance that I was dug up again during a spring clean in the garden."
But Ken says what hurt most was the mental torture.

"Another time when she was on the rag, I accidentally put a knife in the fork drawer, so she phoned the police and told them that I was a filthy kiddie fiddler who had done all of the Cabbage Patch dolls in one night.

"I had to go through so many degrading interviews, until the police realised I was innocent, and dropped the charges."

Ken revealed exclusively to me that Barbie is not the fresh-faced, fun-sized doll she seems.

"She's been around for over 50 years, and she's had more than her micro skirt lifted, I can tell you! It may shock your readers to learn that her hair isn't even real."

But tougher times have now fallen on Ken, as the world's most famous divorcee comes to terms with his new life alone.

"I'm taking it one day at a time. She may still have the house, yacht, car, limo, stable, helicopter and sex toys, but for now I'm happy living in a tiny box underneath some Power Rangers and a My Little Pony with the head chewed off. Some would say it sounds harsh, but I'm content with who I am. I'll never go back ever. I'm happy to be away from that psychotic slut.

At this point in our interview a flustered Ken dashed from the room saying: "I'll be right back, I'm just going to check my answering machine."

Ken continued to check the answering machine every five minutes to find that no one had contacted him.

So newly Divorced Ken is now available from Matel, priced £13.99, complete with greasy unkempt hair, stubble, dirty macintosh, holed sweatshirt, no socks, burst shoes, and comes equipped with a free park bench and can of Special Brew.

As I have stated many times before, I have spent many long, exhausting days (and nights) studying the female sexual response, but my supply of original material has been drying up and the carpets have become far too sticky to walk on,

So I decided to visit an imposing castle in Bavaria, where I had learned that Professor Helmut Zigler was the leading authority on the subject of the Female Orgasm in the developed world.

What follows is my very personal account of my chat with the reclusive and eccentric Sexpert.

“Good morning, Professor Zigler,” I began, having established beforehand that the professor had a passable command of English.

“It is Zigler,” he hissed, “zere are two esses. You must never forget ze essesss.” Not a good start as I was already confused!

Thinking I had already blown any chance of a rapport with this man by mispronouncing his name, I got straight down to business by asking him what the secret of the female orgasm was.

There was a long pause, during which the cadaverous academic peered at me over the rim of his pince-nez. Eventually he leaned forward on the threadbare elbows of his cardigan and began speaking in a very animated fashion.

“You see, my boy,” he said, with an air of unsettling familiarity, “Ve men have no problem with orgasm; ze front cover of Health and Efficiency was sufficient to drain ze poison from ze gonads in my youth, und even zat had ze genitalia airbrushed out. But zen, we have ze physical appendage that enables us to both see and feel ze state of our arousal. Zis is a most useful advantage—a most useful advantage.”

He stopped speaking and leant slowly back in his leather chair, as if recalling memories from the distant past, his eyes tightly shut and his hands clenched into fists upon his lap. Then, as if coming out of a dream, he leaned forward again and continued. “Women are not like zis. Their genitals are...how do you say?...an entirely different kettle of fishes. I have spent decades researching just what are ze stimulants zat will bring a woman to orgasm in a very short time, but only now has my penny been spent.”

“You mean the penny has dropped?” I interjected, helpfully.

“Try not to interrupt,” he barked. “I have found zat women have to be very relaxed in order to orgasm—very, very relaxed. In order to achieve zis for his wife or girlfriend or ze cheap floozie he has picked up in some back alley"
"Back alley, professor?"

"Don't interrupt! Even ze ladies of ze night deserve consideration. It is important zat ze man does everything he can to make ze lady as comfortable as possible. She must have pampers, complete pampers. Only then will she let go und her troubles will all flood out.”

“You mean pampered?” I ventured hesitantly.
“Pampers, pampered it all mounts up to ze same thing, my boy...relaxation. Und zen she must have ze ambience. Ze soft, sensuous lighting, or better still, scented candles to provide ze right mood. Also, she is requiring soothing music zat is melodic yet a little mysterious...but not played too loud—never too loud, or ze man will not be able to hear her cries at ze moment of crises.”

This was certainly getting more interesting, as I had been a lover of music since the 1960s when my mother could not stop singing 'Does your chewing gum lose its flavour on the bedpost overnight?”

“Could you recommend any particular music?” I asked hopefully.
“Ze Enid,” he said with a quiet smugness that seemed to border on arrogance.
“What—'Something Wicked This Way Comes?” I replied with self-assurance.
“Nein...” he sighed and added almost inaudibly, “Touch me.”
“Sorry?”

“Zat's ze name of ze song, not a cheap come-on. I'm not gay you know.”
"Do...er, go on, professor.”
“Some might say ze piano passages are rather odd und quirky, but I have found through many experiments zat ze syncopated rhytmus is extremely stimulating to ze female libido.”
He was almost trance-like now, wringing his hands continuously as he leaned almost painfully forward in his chair. “Zen food.”
“Food?” I asked
“Yes...food...und it must be ze right food. None of zose off-ze-peg meals”

“Take-aways?”

“Take-away, take-out, whip-up, it's all ze same krep,” he replied, his voice climbing several octaves as he re-adjusted his pince-nez. “Vot is wanted is a lightly poached salmon fillet nestling on ze soft bed of wild rocket with asparagus tips und baby potatoes dripping—dripping, you understand—in a buerre blanc....And drink...only ze finest champagne...all zose bubbles signifying ze rising of ze innermost desires to the surface. Zat is the secret, my boy. Ze woman should now recline. Ze man must be subservient, but at ze same time concentrating on ze physical signs. Just watch her mouth as her lips become moister. Look very carefully and you may detect a slight dribble from ze corner of her lips. Zis will tell you zat ze time is very near.”

“The time?” I asked rather naively.

“Yes!” he exclaimed excitedly, pounding his clenched fist on his thigh. “Ze time when ze delicious creamy fluid substance is to be administered by ze man!”
Well, that was the first time I had heard it described in that fashion, but I dared not interrupt him as he rattled on at a break-neck pace.
“...Ze timing of ze introduction of ze creamy nectar, is of ze most vital importance. Ze utmost concentration is necessary to choose ze right moment to go to ze fridge.”
“The fridge?” This departure caught me somewhat off guard.
“Yes ze fridge!” he repeated as if I was some kind of idiot. “You don't want it to go soft now, do you?”
“Don't want what to go soft?”
“Ze Haagen Dazs. Ze ice cream”
“Ice cream...?” I asked warily, “I thought”
“ I know vot you thought! Will you stop interrupting, you ignorant boy!”

“Sorry, professor.”

“A normal 500ml carton would be plenty, but a small bottle of a sweet sauce is also vital. See how the woman's pupils dilate when her eyes catch sight of ze ice cream tub und watch carefully how her breathing becomes heavier as she greedily removes ze lid, revealing ze creamy, sensuous interior. However, you must wait und observe as her movements will now become increasingly jerky und uncontrolled...see?...she tosses aside ze spoon in favour of her hands…notice how she is now moaning faintly but more frequently as she takes bigger und bigger mouthfuls—at ze same time moving her thighs together in a rhythmic fashion which becomes faster und more urgent. She will start to utter more audible groans as she forces more and more into her mouth; some will leak out around the sides and drip gently onto her heaving bosom. She may mutter words such as ‘oh Gott, yes’ und ‘zat is lovely’ or possibly even ‘is zere any more?’ und you must be ready... for just as she is working herself into a frenzy und grabbing more ice cream, take your bottle of sauce...I recommend maple syrup, but butterscotch can be just as effective...und squirt ze contents on ze top of ze remaining ice cream. If you are really lucky she will shout your name as she pushes ze last handfuls into her mouth und falls back onto the sofa, exhausted. As her eyelids close gradually, she will utter zose wonderful words zat every man wants to hear: ‘oh thank you, that was the most wonderful time, ever.”

Professor Zigler slumped back into his armchair, breathing hard, the sweat pouring down his face and wiped his pince-nez with a trembling hand.

“Zere...my boy,” he sighed, “how was zat for you?”

I was left a little breathless and also very confused.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Is that it?” “What about her genitals? Do they play no part in this?”

He was about to close his eyes, but stopped to regard me with a pitying look over his pince-nez.

“Oh no, dear boy. Oh dear me, no. Ze genitals? Oh, mine Gott, no. I have done much research into zat part of a woman's anatomy und while I admit zat ze vaginal massage will sometimes produce a spurious temporary euphoria, it is nothing compared to vot I have just described to you.

Ze handling of ze female genitalia produces a kaleidoscope of images in the minds of women undergoing zis form of primitive und clumsy stimulation.
My measurements of ze brain wave patterns during zis phase have conclusively shown zat ze various shades seen are a direct correlation with the Dulux Vinyl Silk Emulsion colour chart in the event of clitoral arousal, and the patterns seen with stimulation of the inner labia are from the Crown ‘easy-up’ wallpaper catalogue.”
“Er...you've lost me, professor."

Suddenly, the door opened and a nurse walked in.

“Ah there you are Mr Zigler,” she exclaimed. “I have been looking for you everywhere. It's time for your medication.”

With that, she pulled him out of the chair and, without so much as an acknowledgement to me, led him through the open door and out into the dimly lit corridor.

“I think you will need two injections in your bottom tonight,” she said as they walked on into the gloom “And then I have a nice big bowl of soup for you, liebchen...”

“I hope it is ze thick pea soup with smoked bacon und frankfurters,” said Zigler.
“Oooh, you're such a naughty boy,” exclaimed the nurse, patting his bottom affectionately

I decided that this might be an opportune time to make a hasty exit and legged it!

The entire UK population and a small town in Kent were today shocked at news from a close friend of Ann Widdecombe. According to Lord Douglas Haig, a group of "killer gnomes" carried out a tactical raid on Ms Widdecombe's home sometime between 1:00 AM and her feeding time.

Speaking to ex-children's TV heart throb Mr Benn, Lord Haig said: "The gnomes attacked for no damned reason at all; they were not provoked by me, Ms Widdecombe or Jaqui Spliff". After Mr Benn reminded his lordship that he was not involved in this attack, although Jaqui Spliff could well have been, he let out a belch and ran off.

Sources in the New Scotland Yard say that the gnomes originally came from South Wales and had been angered by Ms Widdecombe's refusal to holiday there. Police who are actually investigating the attack have so far drawn a blank, but have taken Ms Widdecombe into protective police custody "for her own and everyone else's safety".

Advisors close to President Obama have told me that the war on terrorism may soon be extended now that the war in Afghanistan and Iraq is all but over. According to Douglas Sutherland Jr, the man who tells Mr Obama which tie to wear, the Americans are keen to start on their next expedition: a "war on things we don't like".

The war on things they don't like is likely to include "rogue" states such as Iran, Syria and Belgium, but may also include individuals who are not especially liked. Margaret Thatcher, Ken Livingstone, Tony Blair and Bill Clinton have all reportedly invested in extra security. Meanwhile, some right-wing analysts have suggested that the war could even encompass a war on "bad pop music", with Westlife and Ronan Keating being likely targets.

It is not yet clear whether the UK will be supporting the new campaign, although Gordon Brown is said to be keen on giving Ken Livingston and Tony Blair "a good battering". Labour backbenchers are likely to reject the plans, though, protesting that they "actually quite like Westlife".

Television regulator Ofcom has launched a probe into the long-term effects of watching "reality" television after receiving complaints from several viewers this week. The viewers wrote in to report that they had suffered dizziness, nausea, hallucinations and complete loss of consciousness as a result of watching the shows. More alarmingly, two viewers reported that they had found themselves becoming obsessively interested in toenail clippings and belly button fluff after watching the latest show, " Being Bored To Death", produced by Bayer Pharmaceuticals.

The Channel 4 show, in which contestants compete for a jackpot of £75,000 in two-pence pieces, has been hailed as a masterpiece of reality TV by residents of Hull. The contestants have thus far spent one week competing with each other to discuss the most boring things possible in an attempt to knock each other out of the show. Topics have ranged from discussions about the ideal colour and texture for bath-towels to various brands of filing cabinets. The lengthiest discussion so far has revolved around how best to dispose of chewing gum, and what to do if you find some stuck in your teeth. This four-hour debate memorably left Contestant Kathy screaming to be released from the competition.

Fans of the remaining contestants have criticized Kathy for being "too provocative" in her assertion that using a toothpick to remove the offending gum was the best way to deal with it. The majority of viewers seem to hope that Ricky from Southampton will win.

"He's just so utterly boring and mediocre," gushed one female teenage fan. "He really deserves to win. I have already written him several love letters and proposed by scrawling on a pair of my knickers and chucking them into the show." The "knicker-bomb" incident caused some concern among producers, and calls for security at the show to be tightened.

Meanwhile, talent scouts are already preparing for Ricky's release form the show. Following the gargling competition, in which Ricky displayed "an amazing tonal range", several agents are said to be interested in providing him with a lucrative three-record deal.

Bayer, which amassed a fortune in the manufacture of suppositories and other rectal applications before turning its attention to television, defends its shows as "informative experiments" and says that it has big plans for its next show, "Reality TV". Details are closely guarded, but one insider said that the show is likely to involve twelve contestants watching reality TV for hours on end whilst trying to perform basic tasks such as making a cup of tea, answering the phone and holding a conversation. In a twist to the usual format, however, the winner will be the contestant who fails to achieve any of these tasks.

In response to the Ofcom probe, Bayer is adamant that losing consciousness is not actually bad for viewers. Channel 4, meanwhile, is planning a "Top 100 Reality TV shows" programme next month, in response to criticism that it doesn't actually have anything worth watching on its schedule.

Residents of the sleepy but vibrant seaside town of Minehead have been wondering for the last six months just how many people have to die before the local authority will launch a review of a "treacherous" mini-roundabout installation on the A335 to Truro. Now, at last, they have their answer.

Somerset County Council transport supremo Trevor Mullins told me last night, that under existing traffic safety regulations regarding vehicle flow systems akin to the one just outside Weston, 46 local dwellers must perish to ensure a rethink.

"We're not in the habit of doing things," he said.

"Willy nilly."

"There's a complicated mathematical formula in place. It's devilishly complicated verging on the complex. But the upshot of it is, I'm informed, that we have set the bar pretty high, and it's up to the people of Minehead to rise to the challenge."

The mini-roundabout ensemble has angered locals since its introduction early this year, and a 'Not Roundabouts Here or in Immediate Area' (NRHIA) campaign was soon receiving popular support after the tragic death of resident Stanley Figgess.

Pensioner Mr Figgess was so alarmed at the change to his long-used route to buy pornographic goods and Scotch eggs at the local Texaco petrol station, that he went home in a state of anxiety and died several weeks later riddled with prostate cancer. Since then, campaigners have been fighting in his name, but for some the latest news is a bridge too far.

Carol and Keith Withers, of 48 Spatchcock Crescent, have decided "enough is enough" and are arranging a move to Market Drayton in Shropshire, well known as one of only 328 towns in the UK where roundabouts have yet to cast their deathly shadow.

"Enough is enough. We know we may be consigning ourselves to a nomadic existence as this curse engulfs our sacred isle," said Mr Withers, through an interpreter. "But enough is enough."

It appears though that there might be a chink in the Chinese wall Somerset Council have until now erected between themselves and local residents. Mullins, after all, has an encouraging message for those who want a return to the "dark days" of traffic lights and pelican crossings.

"Let's be frank with each other," he told a campaign meeting late yesterday. "If you give me 36 corpses by Thursday week, there's going to be some leeway."

As English Cricket lurches from one crisis to another, Andrew Flintoff has been caught in the act soberly training for a cricket match, just hours after a mammoth pub crawl. Flintoff nicknamed "Freddie" despite the fact his surname isn't actually Flintstone - was snapped brazenly doing net practice in broad daylight with several other less important England players by an alleged newspaper, The Sun.

"It was quite shocking," said one horrified onlooker, "to see Freddie out training so soon after a bender like that it's just not right. I didn't see him drink or fall over once."

Members of the Barmy Army were equally dismayed at their hero's antics. "We've travelled a long way to see Fred knock 'em back," an English fan said in between shots of vodka. "Wahey!!! No, seriously, he's a role-model for a lot of talented young alcoholics coming through our schools and we don't want them influenced by such abstemious behaviour. Training for a match is just not cricket!"

New Head landlord Andrew Stauss is believed to be considering fining the all-rounder for his tee-total antics. "I've told him repeatedly about this. I may well bar him from the next England pub crawl to the West Indies until he learns to buck up his ideas."

Other members of the England drinking team have been quick to apologise in the wake of their shameful abstinence:

"I'm shorry for practishing cricket when we've shuch an important night out ahead of ushh," said baby-faced gingernut Ian Bell. "I realish I've dented England'shh proud reputation for excsheshsive drunkennesshh. I promish it wont happen again, offisher...honeshht!"

Lancastrian Flintoff is widely regarded as one of the greatest boozers of his generation and is currently placed 4th in the world rankings, just behind Oliver Reed, Richard Harris and George Best.

In an effort to "put all speculation to rest", Prime Minister Gordon Brown has announced he will leave office "no later than" 5th February 2048. In an exclusive interview with my good self, Brown said, "I want to finish what I've started, and to be quite honest that could take decades." Brown deflected questions about his potential successor, stating that "I won't discuss that issue until the moment of my departure, when I fully intend to endorse whoever is around at the time!

Brown repeatedly dodged questions from me concerning the worldwide recession and the burgeoning cash for peerages scandal that threatens his legacy. "I have Mandy Mandelson
Looking into the national security implications of this investigation," Brown said. "And according to a draft of the report that I haven't even seen, much less heavily revised, pursuit of the peerages investigation could spell the end of freedom, democracy, Big Brother, and all sorts of other things the public hold dear." Brown indicated that he "would, of course, suspend judgement" until the final report is issued, "which I will have no chance whatsoever to influence."

On the vexing problem of Afghanistan and the Iraq war, Brown was surprisingly upbeat. "Because of the efforts of the coalition of the willing, the Iraqi people now enjoy free elections and a wide variety of cutting-edge vehicular bombs and roadside explosives," Brown said. "This is the most significant feat of British arms since we liberated all those sheep in the Falklands."

Conservative Leader Mr David Cameron was unavailable for comment on Brown's announcement at press time, although a spokesman claimed the Leaders face "turned an astonishing variety of hues" when he learned of it. "It appears that the only realistic chance Cameron now has of becoming Prime Minister is by committing one or more rather violent felonies," said David Ramsbottom, professor of perpetual government at the University of Bootle, Merseyside.

In a stark warning to the UK people, the Press Complaints Commission's Director of Issuing Warnings today warned of the many warnings about bird flu that the country was about to be warned about.

In a hermetically sealed press conference hastily arranged in the "Ice Palace" function room at Sidcup dry ski slope, Mr Trevor T Ramsbottom outlined his dystopic vision of the future. "There is a very real possibility that an outbreak of epidemic proportions is about to overcome the newspaper and 24-hour rolling news services in this country," he said.

"All the early indicators are that this season stories about Bird Flu will wipe out millions of other news items. We are especially concerned about the vulnerability of the young and old stories in our communities, and those already compromised by poor immunity to public indifference. Thousands of items and bulletins from such diverse backgrounds as the war in Afghanistan, Prince Williams loutish behaviour, and how to live a sustainable lifestyle will be powerless to resist scare mongering and conjecture on the kind of scale we are predicting."

Mr Ramsbottom pointed towards evidence coming out of the Far East where stories about Avian flu were already beginning to take hold. "These stories may soon become able to mutate to a more deadly strain that can be passed directly between different forms of media. Already we have seen stories pass from tabloid to broadsheet, from Fox to BBC News 24, with barely a single alteration in their genetic make up."

Experts say that if these strains manage to infect other forms of media such as the internet, topical discussion programmes, Blog.co.uk, and even mobile phones, this new multi-platform story could lead to devastation not seen since the death of Desert Orchid.

"And you only need to take a peek at the Daily Mail to see the long term consequences of this kind of disease," Mr Ramsbottom added. Following a number of complaints, a spokesman for the Press Complaints Commission later stated that Mr Ramsbottom's comments "were not meant to be taken literally" and strongly advised the general public against taking any kind of peek at the Daily Mail.

Symptoms of Bird Flu Story to look out for include excessive salivation over projected fatalities, swellings in xenophobic rantings about disease-carrying asylum seekers, raised temperatures over inadequate government strategies, and a dangerous dumbing-down of knowledge regarding virology and public health.