was going on word of a skeen bash up East End at a place called da Asylum. Not much da connoisseur of drum and bass was I, preferin' more da dulcet tunes of Shawn Carter, what you blokes might know as Jay-Z. This Asylum bash, no accountin' for tastes, but I'm always well up for a swim in da old skin chimminy with a bit o' gentleman's relish. To get from 'ere to there I thumbed me way from Cramlington to da tube and took da underground to wheres I thought 'appenins was supposing to be 'appenin'.

No sign of what 'ave you and I was light on pounds, sos I knicked da bag of a Paki lady. Couple fivers in it. I'm still countin' when da coppers waylay me. Trumped up charges, of course, of course, but no reasonin' with da penguins. I say two words and the police state is beatin' me with sticks. Grotesquely miscarriages of justices an' all that.

I go like a wonky light bulb right in da alley. When I manage to pry me 'ead awake everythin's fuzzy. I stagger around a bit and then it all comes to into focus. Them coppers what beat me in da 'ead drug me somewhere deep in the run downs of East End. Even worse than ware'ouses and boarded up flats, it's like what Hobbit land would be built on a pile of tag. It stinks to shite and all da people is in rags and ugly brown hats. Not even rocks on da road, just dirt. Even we's got proper roads up Cramlington way.

"Oi," I says to a woman what looks like a pensioner with too many cats, "wheres this then?"

She looks at me with these big fraidy eyes and gets down on her knees.

"Forgiefan mec, mic domne!" She's yellin' and down there like she's gonna smoke da pipe.

"Nutta'!" I shouts and push her away.

Some other bloke is staggering around the shire so I creep up on 'im.

"Oi," I says to 'im, "know where the Asylum is, mate?"

"Sarig, mic domne! Ic don naht." He's in a 'urry to get about 'is business.

I has a nuff o' that shite and I is gettin' a bit wound up by all this. I see a crotchety old bugger with a bear woodsy cane like 'e's a wizard and I runs up on 'im. I know just what to say to take care of da matters.

"Brap!" I shouts and lays a council flat slap on 'is mouth.

The look! Oh I wish me bredrin was around to see attun'. Gots it on me phone though, so no 'arm done. I'll upload that straightaway to 'appy-slaps dot org, soon as I can get 'ome that is.

I puts it back on da screen to maybe set a photo from it as me wallpaper when these strong 'ands is gripping at me arms.

"What's all this, ye fuckin' homos!" I yells with da greatest consternation I may ever experience. "Rape! Rape! These homos is rapin' me!"

Da nutters from East End just look around like a cock is gonna go into their mouths and there wasn't a friendly Burberry in sight. Da two whats got a 'old o' me is breathin' heavy and talkin' like some poof outta da bibles.

"Prithe ten and tear," or somesuch bollocks, but da meat of it was: "you is a 'ooligan."

"I know me rights!" I shout, but these constables is dressed all stupid like halfa mincin' knight. One of 'em brains me right there with a stick, not even no pepper mace or nothin'. Just straight away to me noggin'. Twice in as many hours what I've got knocked insensate by da coppers!

I drift off thinkin' it's the last time fer sure I try bein' cordial in East End. Say "'ello" and end up gettin' yer 'ead cracked.

I wake up and I am tied to a chair, like its Tarantina only every one o' them whats sittin' across a weird round table from me looks straight outta Lord of da Rings. Da whole inside is stonesy like a castle and nuff old shite to make da Cash in Da Attic crowd blow pants.

"Which one of you twats is da elf?" I asks and they don't take kindly.

Thats when I see they got me phone and most of me kit. Me good baseball cap, me chains, me holograph watch, and me Kappa track pants and hoodie. Da bastards even snatched me laser pointer what lets me put a picture of a fanny on someone's face. It's a great icebreaker. Believe you me, I wish I coulda 'ad it a few minutes after.

"Liesan his bonds so baet it miht sprecan freoly," says this gay old crust in a suit of armor.

I was gonna lip off, but they untied me from that damn chair sos I play spect and let them go on.

"Reccan thine wiccecraeft to us, fiend!" Says this pig man with a big sign of Jesus on his shirt.

"You a vicar, then?" I asks with a laugh an' scratch me head at all this East Ender rubbish.

"Waen didst thine yfel commenth?" Asks another bloke in a suit of armor.

"Evil? Bit 'arsh. Got me first ASBO fer throwin' a dog at me old lady," I says. "Got me second and me third fer throwin' da wee ones up a chimminy and gettin' em stuck up there. Funny thing is I don't even owns a chimminy, I was just visitin' me mum in 'ospital. Don't think they got 'em there either, so it'll 'ave ta be one o' life's mysteries. Anyways, can't go in a 'undred yards o' Regina and me lads no more. Hardly fair. Hardly fair."

"Gwaen speaketh in fouel tongues!" Says da vicar.

"Mind if I have a fag while you sort this out?" I snag me pack of fags from me hoodie and they flinch away like I'm a bleedin' vampire, which is to say a vampire, not one whats bleedin'.

"Sittan baec, fiend!" Says da vicar and 'e makes a cross sign.

“Awright then, calm down,” I says seeing as how they was all torqued up. “No need to get racialist over it. Just a bit o’ bootane.”

I light up me fag and they is crowin' about it like I'm Dumpadore from 'arry Potter. One bloke grabs it right out me mouth and throws it across da room.

"Fun to be a big man innit?" I says. "Come up Chelmsford or Cramlington council yards, ye wanker. Try it on there."

"Enough!" Says da knightly twat at da top o' da circle, such as that goes. "Hu didst thou secan here?"

"What is this anyway, Stepney?" I ask. "Is you Germans or somethin'? I came for da gash meine freunden."

The whole lot looks at me baffles like.

"You know, get me leg over onna fit bird. Some party or what 'ave you. I got clapped by the coppers an' clapped again by these 'orrid chug nuts over 'ere."

I point to da two blokes what put da clappers on me and da vicar starts praying all over again like I'm holdin' me wand.

"Awright, awright, relax," I says to ease things down a bit.

"Deofol!" The vicar yells.

"Look 'ere," I says, walkin' up to the table again, "I'll just text me mate what works for da BNP and e'll set things right."

I pick up me phone and start pressin' da buttons to text Dan Darling.

"'E's just over Bethnal ways, won't take-"

What 'appens next is more violence of da state and another brutality of injustice. Da coppers, such as they is, start gettin' well rowdy when me phone beeps. Vicar, he starts in with the nomine santoo patroo an' what 'ave you, da others are just as twisted up. One o' them knightly coppers grabs me phone right away from me hand and bashes it to bits an' pieces with a big fuck off hammer. The others grab me by me arms and start haulin' me away.

"Rape!" I screams, but hardly no one around to be hearin' this awful brutalizations.

Now it gets even stranger, cuz they coulda just put me in juvie 'oldin (I'm only 15 'spite 'avin two younguns and a missus) but instead they open up a 'ole in the floor and throw me down. I hurt me back when I fall and it is very dark and terrible down where I is. I tell them I need to visit NHS an' they just don't givva. There are a couple people what is down there with me and they look like monsters and smell like olives.

Suddenly like, I remember somethin' I seen in school back when I was goin'. Teacher was out and the office worker brought in a telly for a video. It was a bit o' shite movie from tha colonies what has Martin who ends up back in time and becomes a knight. That then is when I realize the magnitudes of my predicament. But my troubles, oh my troubles, they 'ad just begun, and alls I could 'ope for was an opportunities to teach them 'ow to 'ip-'op. The knightly types would for sure feel da magic of Shawn Carter.

– Zack "Geist Editor" Parsons (@sexyfacts4u)

More Front Page News

This Week on Something Awful...

  • Meditations from a Movable Weiner

    Meditations from a Movable Weiner

    Sometimes I dream that I'm sitting in the back of the defunct Weinermobile as it careens driverless down the highway. At first I thought this was symbolic of the powerlessness I feel in life, but then I realized it's actually the Weinermobile's dream of being able to drive again.

  • BarkWire.com Dog Reviews: The Barquis de Sade & Cleaver

    BarkWire.com Dog Reviews: The Barquis de Sade & Cleaver

    Three years ago, when we were burying my uncle, Cleaver and some gross lady dog (Solstice???) showed up at the cemetery and starting going at it really loudly. It ruined everything and we had to have a "re-do" the next day and it cost a fortune. I've hated him ever since for that.

Copyright ©2014 Rich "Lowtax" Kyanka & Something Awful LLC.