Boris Johnson, Mayor of London, has saved a woman who was being attacked by a gang of young girls, one of whom was brandishing an iron bar.  The woman called out for help to a passing cyclist, who turned out to be Mr Johnson.  He grabbed the weapon and chased off the girls.

Commentators have wondered why Mr Johnson’s advisers have not made more fuss of the incident; surely Boris is a modern Knight in Shining Armour and that would look good in the paper?

The reason is that those advisors have been unable to sleep because they have been haunted by the other possible outcomes:

“Boris ignores damsel in distress and cycles to safety”

“Boris beats twelve year old girl to death with iron bar”

“Boris badly beaten by gang of school girls.”

They were lucky this time, next time those sweaty, pale ‘yes-men’ might have to earn their large salaries.


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In my attic there is an old tiger who has been imprisoned there since the day I met my wife.  The three of us could not survive living together like Siegfried and Roy and so I keep him locked in an iron cage and I feed him treats by hand.

If that tiger ever escapes he will destroy me.



Sometimes I exchange messages with a girl in the street or a woman in a shop and far away I can hear the tiger thrashing around and gnawing at the metal bars.


I’ve built that cage well but all it needs to break it apart is a moment of weakness.


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Scientists led by Dr Ben Whalley, at the University o f Reading have used cells from the brain of a rat foetus to control a robot and help it to navigate around its enclosure.

The Open Wound sent senior journalist, Tim Flapps, to investigate.

“Hello, Dr Whalley, we’ve come to see your experiment.”
“Sorry.  You can’t.”

“Are you denying the right of the Free Press because you’re scared of being labelled ‘Frankenstein’?”
“No, you can’t see the robot because it’s escaped.  It gnawed through its cage, chewed through the skirting board and is currently living in the wall space.”

“Is this a danger to public safety?”
“Don’t worry; our emergency response measures have been instigated. “

“Which are?”
“We’ve left a piece of Edam in a trap and our maintenance man is whacking the wall with a broom to drive it out.  If I was you, I’d get up on this table with me.  And tuck your trousers into your socks.”


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In the eyes of God

Eighty four year old Nigerian, Mohammed Bello Abubakar has 86 wives.

“I don’t go looking for them, they come to me,” said Mister Abubakar, “God did not say what the punishment should be for a man who has more than four wives.”

The Open Wound asked God that question.

“The crime is also the punishment,” said an unfathomable God, “Abubakar might pretend he’s 84 but I can tell you he’s only 36, he just looks 84.  Now stop bothering me, my Tesco home shopping’s just turned up and I have to check for ridiculous substitutions.”


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The new weekly documentary adventure series – featuring high-achieving British women taking on tough, physical jobs that have only ever been done by men – continues. In tonight’s second episode, three women travel to the wilds of British Columbia to join logging operations during the freezing Canadian winter.

It’s not long before Supervisor Tim Burr is having to help out.
“What’s wrong Tracey?”
“I think there’s something wrong with this saw, Tim, I’m only managing to cut one tree a day and everybody else is doing dozens.”
“Let me have a go, little lady.”
Tim takes a firm grip on the chain saw and pulls the starting cord twice so that it roars into life.
“Bloody hell! What’s that noise?” exclaims Tracey.
“That’s the motor, luv.”
“The saw’s got a motor?!”

Meanwhile, Anna is assisting Paul Ardar in the gloomy hold of one of the boats.
“Ok, Anna, get some grease on your hands and reach through that access hole towards me until you find the main piston.”
“But I can’t see what I’m doing Paul!”
“I know luv, but just stretch towards the sound of my voice until your hand touches the piston rod.”
“Ok, I’ll try. Oh, I think I’ve found it! I’ve got a good grip on it now. I’m working the grease into it. Are you ok, Paul? You’ve gone very quiet. Paul?”

Helen is packing her bags ready to leave.
“Why are you leaving Helen,” asks the TV Director, “is it just too tough for you?”
“I don’t mind the hard work and long hours,” she replies. “It’s the swearing, farting and sexual advances that I can’t put up with any longer!”
“But surely you’d expect that from a gang of isolated, uneducated men?”
“Yeah I would, but it’s Tracey and Anna doing it!”

Next week: The offside rule and slashing into a bucket from a standing position.

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Not a brand new dance and it’s coming to town

It’s this week’s World Premier Fashion Show and prima donna and top fashion guru, Lotta Fussenshyte is sitting in the best seat, surrounded by her entourage, watching the models pass on the catwalk just feet from her nose.
She’s an important woman. If she states that wearing your household pets is the latest fashion, a week later Prince Harry will be sporting Corgi fur trousers.

“Oh God, this is so tedious,” she neighs, as the skinny, bug eyed girls totter along like a herd of baby giraffes that have been dressed from Woolworths by an escaped mental patient.
“If only the designers could come up with something new rather than just turning the fashion from two years ago upside down and adding a handbag!”

Meanwhile, Harry Tranks, a local vagabond, thief and down-and-out has wandered through the back door of the theatre, via the kitchen and onto the stage. He’s managed to steal a bowl of spaghetti Bolognese which is tucked under one arm and over the other is draped a feather boa which he took from the dressing rooms.

Harry is soaked full of wine, cheap cider and lighter fluid so, as normal, he has no idea of where he is or what is going on. His clothes are torn and stained and one of his shoes is missing a heel, which makes him walk with the same alarming, jerky stride as the models.

Lotta spots him staggering towards her down the catwalk.
“Now this looks more interesting,” she purrs.

Harry chooses that moment to step on the end of the boa. He goes into a sideways spin and throws his hands out to stop his fall. The glass bowl makes a shining arc through the spotlights and delivers a trail of tomato-covered spaghetti that starts in the second row seats around Sting, splatters across the lap of Victoria Beckham and ends on the top of Lotta Fussenshytes dyed blonde head.

For a moment there’s complete silence, but then Lotta says; “Beautiful, just beautiful. I thought that fashion was dead but that display has reawakened long dormant feelings in my heart. This is what we shall all be wearing next Spring!”
The crowd goes wild.

And that explains my appearance this evening, darling.
I’m not drunk and I haven’t been fighting in the Italian restaurant. It’s a fashion thing.


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