Tribune of Troof journalist Peter Rofl with a Shoot Farken EXCLUSIVE.
“Stop the boats!” We hear you cry. But alas there is a greater menace lurking in the very midst of our beings, ready to shake our civility to its very apple core, rotten as a worm burrowing its way to the heart of our Great and Good Society.
“THEY will never understand our culture of passion, which is expressed by the hurling of flaming hot smoking orange chuckable things,” the doe-eyed Ultra exclaimed to the Tribune of Troof.
Flaming hot smoking orange chuckable things from hell!
The Tribune of Troof has gained never before granted access to the seething, ulcerous, seeping cancer rotting away at the moral fabric of our Great and Good Society. We have gone undercover to bring you the full and disastrous troof threatening to sow the seed of evil into the hearts and minds of our innocent children.
Penetrating the acrid smoke billowing from the flaming hot smoking orange chuckable things, the Tribune of Troof ventured deep into the Dart of Harkness, to meet with the Fagin-like figure responsible for procuring, supplying and pressing flaming hot smoking orange chuckable things into the soft and tender palms of mere babes.
Our steamer had sailed up the Congo, beyond the comfortable confines of the townships downstream, until we were pitched deep into the jungle.
From here there was no return.
Civilisation now just a memory awash on a distant river bank, with its buildings and other trappings of the social contract pitched precariously like toy blocks awaiting a malicious toddler’s swipe. The jungle heaved in and out, its foul breath reeking both fetid and festering pestilence, a reminder of the cankerous and corrupting fumes always at the ready to infect and infest our Great and Good Society.
Then we see it, beyond a breach in the river, coming from a thicket of luminous green jungle bush: Flaming hot smoking orange chuckable things!
On the river bank is our guide, decked out in the fineries of his tribe, a young lost soul ruined by the lure of the cult of the flaming hot smoking orange chuckable things. He wore a dark expensive rain jacket that his mother must have bought for him – “Peaceful Hooligan” said the logo on the jacket, blue denim material slacks and sandshoes designed for the purpose of sneaking, colloquially known as “sneakers”. His face was obscured from us by the wearing of a balaclava. For this is a highly secretive cult.
From here we instructed the yoof to take us to his leader, for we are only here to reveal the troof.
He grunted and acquiesced to our demand, but not before assailing us with his putrid propaganda: “It’s about passion! That’s why we fling flaming hot smoking orange chuckable things! We’re different to all them other tribes and you and your sorts can’t handle that troof!”
We held our tongues, fearful that were we to engage this befuddled yoof in logic we would forsake our chance at meeting the Lucifer (for it was he, Satan, who was the Angel of Light, shrouded in smoke and hellfire) at the head of this pernicious cult.
Through the foul jungle we tracked until we came to a strange cave, which had seemingly been crafted, carved and rendered into the design of a human skull, ghoulish mouth agape, and with turrets jutting out at its top.
Artist’s rendering of the Ultra’s Lair.
“We are here now – this is the Ultras lair,” the yoof instructed, before bowing from the waist and disappearing in a puff of orange smoke.
Intrepid, fearless, we walked forward into the gaping mouth of the skull cave, ready for our encounter with evil most foul, the man responsible for the cult of the flaming hot smoking orange chuckable things.
Upon entering, our senses were assaulted by the smell of burning meats, no doubt halal, and the oriental waft of shisha pipe smoke. Loud “house” music blared from tannoys embedded in the rock walls, while Afghan dancing boys gyrated and preened for the amusement of a cadre of Ultra yoof.
Here, laid bare, was the sick and twisted world of Johnny Foreigner. The den from which the filthy cult of flaming hot smoking orange chuckable things schemed its terrible schemes to infiltrate and poison the pure yoof of our Great and Good Society.
And there he sat, the man they referred to as Da Capo, far away at the back of the cavernous room, upon a throne lit by the blazing hellish light of flaming hot smoking orange chuckable things. Slumped in his throne, slowly rubbing his right hand against the pate of his bald, shining head.
We approached and he looked at us through heavy-lidded eyes, sunk into his gaunt skull like dirty swamp golf balls. Having been informed of our coming, he dispensed with the niceties of civilised discourse and speared his words straight to the very heart of our mission.
“No pyro – no party,” he gruffly mumbled, all the while fiddling with the Samsung Galaxy in his left hand.
We stood motionless, nauseated by what we were hearing coming from the demon’s mouth.
Then he thundered: “NO PYRO – NO PARTY!”
With that proclamation, a gang of yoofs suddenly appeared at our sides, and grabbed us roughly by the arms and led us out of the cave and back into the jungle. This was the end of our engagement with Da Capo.
The Tribune of Troof had glimpsed the secretive inside world of the cult of the flaming hot smoking orange chuckable things and could only come away thinking: “The horror! The horror!”
