UN Urges Musharraf To Hit Lawyers Harder

PAKISTAN president Pervez Musharraf was last night accused of ‘cynical populism’ after he ordered his police to round up thousands of lawyers and hit them with sticks.

Opposition politicians branded the attacks an empty pre-election stunt for the cameras, and pointed out that millions of Pakistani lawyers were not even given a slap.

At the United Nations, an emergency session called to assess the situation unanimously backed a motion urging the General to hit the lawyers “really, really hard”.

Ban ki-Moon, the UN secretary general, said: “Maybe it is a stunt. Who cares? The guy is giving lawyers a right old panning. That can only be good.”

Malik Abdul, 46 a marriage forcer of Lahore, said when he first saw the police beating the crowd he screamed at them to stop, but when he was told that they were lawyers he asked if he could join in.

He said: “Every time I come out of my lawyer’s office I feel like I have been mugged. Death to the devils in pin-stripes.”

However, his friend Imran Saaed, 37, a bearded fundamentalist, was highly critical of the police tactics, saying he never once got a chance to have a crack.

He said: “I went home especially to get my cricket bat, but when I returned I was told only uniform police could hit the lawyers. What kind of country of democracy is this?”

Omar Khan, 34, a westernised liberal, said he was disgusted that Musharraf thought that he could secure his position by attacking members of the legal establishment.

He said: “Anyone can beat a lawyer. We want someone who will put the testicles of every traffic warden in a vice and then squeeze them, a man who will take all our estate agents out into the desert, force them to dig their own graves and then shoot them like dogs. That is a strong man.”

'I Was There'

Great moments in sport, No.87: Travis Bickle remembers the 1981 Headingley Test

It’s been three days of Australian dominance. I’m thinking the only thing that can save England from certain defeat is for a real rain to come along and wash away all these scum-sucking Aussies…fucking Mau-Maus.

I gotta get in shape. Too long sitting in corporate hospitality nibbling canapés. Time to put on my blue cagoule and hit the mean streets of Headingley. My body is a temple. I train on pork scratchings and scotch eggs alone.

I met a girl today – what was her name? Oh yeah, Betty. Betty’s doing real important work in the campaign to elect Geoffrey Boycott as Yorkshire CC President, whatever the fuck that is. I keep getting pains in my head – I think I got brain cancer, or maybe it’s because I got hit in the skull by a cricket ball when I was walking past the confectionary stall. I don’t know. Anyway, I asked Betty out on a date today, and she said ‘yes’. I think I’ll get her a present.

We went to Harry Ramsden’s that night and I ordered two fish suppers with all the trimmings. Everything was going real well, I think she liked the Showaddywaddy album I bought her, and the packet of Orange Matchmakers. Betty gets up and goes to the bathroom just as the food arrives, so I thought I’d surprise her by putting mayo on her fries. ‘That’s disgusting,’ she says and walks off, crying. I chased after her, pleading with her to see reason – I thought everyone liked mayo on their chips. Damn! I gotta shape up. Damn!

It’s time for action. I look in the Yellow Pages for an arms dealer/fixer/drug dealer/pimp. Luckily there’s one just down the road. I buy a .44 Magnum, this small Colt – good balance – a Walther PPK, and he throws a leather holster in for free. Nice. The guy was a real hustler. ‘I can get you anything – Rubik’s Cube, 20 Lambert & Butler, the new Thompson Twins album.’ ‘Thanks,’ I told him, ‘but no thanks.’

I’m at the ground for the final day of the Test. England take a wicket. Nice fucking game. So I stand there and clap, real slow – ‘clap-clap-clap’. Then this voice comes over the PA: ‘Will the gentleman with the mohawk, wearing a combat jacket and a pair of Foster Grant sunglasses please stop moving behind the bowlers arm.’ Get to fuck, I think to myself, before moving away to sit in the cheap seats.

What do you know? A couple of hours later, hundreds of people are running on the pitch and England have won an historic, like, victory. I smile, look down at my half-empty can of Long Life and make the decision not to slaughter the 1981 Australian tourists in cold blood.