Britain is now a country where even throwing sausages is a criminal offence that is likely to end up with you going to court (even if you are a child).

The Daily Mail yesterday reported that a 12 year old boy was hauled into court after he threw a SAUSAGE at an elderly neighbour after an argument After all, Britain is a country in which bubbles are considered too dangerous (a clown was banned from blowing bubbles outside a supermarket in case they injure people), so a sausage is bound to be far more lethal.

Things like this (throwing sausages at people) happened in the book "Just William", written by British author Richmal Crompton in 1922, about a mischievous schoolboy who caused grief to his teachers.

In this article, Richard Littlejohn gives an example of Just William in the style of how it may be written if it was re-written in today's Britain, with its violence, Health and Safety Nazis, the PC Brigade and people being arrested for throwing sausages...

Yo! Just William and the glue sniffers

24th August 2007
Daily Mail


A judge has thrown out a ridiculous assault charge brought against a 12-year-old boy who lobbed a cocktail sausage at an elderly neighbour during an argument.

He said it sounded like something from the adventures of Just William - Richmal Crompton's mischievous schoolboy - first published in 1922.

This got me wondering what William might be up to today...

It all began when William's aunt, who was going cold turkey that morning, gave him a shilling to fetch some vodka and 20 Silk Cut from the off-licence. William shoplifted the goods and kept the money.

"Says here in the paper that a boy's got took to court for throwing a sausage at an old man," said his auntie. "You wouldn't do nuffink like that, would yer, William?"

"Nah, I'd stripe the old bastard and put the boot in when he goes down," said William.

He went straight to the corner shop to spend his windfall. "Gimme sixpenn'orth of glue and a paper bag," he said.

"You're not going to sniff it, are you?" asked Mr Patel.

"None of your business, pal," said William, taking his Stanley knife from his satchel. "Just hand it over, else I'll cut you."

"Get out, I'm calling the police," said the exasperated shopkeeper, reaching under the counter for the baseball bat he kept for such circumstances, which had become a regular occurrence since foot patrols were withdrawn and PC Dixon, the home beat officer, was transferred to the diversity unit.

"See if I cares, you know they ain't gonna come out. They're all up at the airport, fighting them hippies. Anyway, there ain't bin a cozza round these parts for years."

William laughed contemptuously and helped himself to a six pack of Special Brew and a case of Bacardi Breezers on the way out.

"If yous still got ideas about calling the filth, you better hope they can put out fires, if you get my drift."

Mr Patel decided it wasn't worth giving chase. He'd been burned out three times already. Even when the police did catch one of these feral kids, the courts always let them off with a slap on the wrist.

There was supposed to be an automatic five-year sentence for carrying a blade, but it was never enforced.

And the last time he had chased a young thug, he had been dragged before the court himself - charged with assault and taking the law into his own hands.

No wonder Mr Patel was thinking of moving to Florida and opening a 7-Eleven, what with the crime and all these new immigrants. The congestion charge had all but killed off his business and since the smoking ban his takings had fallen still further.

William turned left at the old village hall - now the Abu Hamza Mosque - and passed the allotments, where members of the travelling community had set up camp and were busily sorting through some stolen lawnmowers and scrap metal, next to a Tarmac lorry and a pile of blazing car tyres.

He headed to the derelict bandstand in the overgrown park, where the cricket pavilion was covered in graffiti, the swings and roundabouts had been demolished on the orders of 'elf and safety and the boating lake was filled with rubbish.

Things had got worse since the epidemic of fly-tipping which started when the council stopped weekly refuse collections and began charging people extra for emptying their bins.

Still, thought William, it's an ill wind. There was nothing he liked more than truanting from school and shooting the rats who were attracted to all the overflowing bin bags and discarded fast food cartons.

He'd bought the gun off an Eastern European gangster who ran a people-trafficking racket and sold illegal weapons on the side.

William's paper round money didn't run to an AK-47, so he took to dealing drugs, 1 wraps of heroin from Afghanistan, which he knocked out behind the bike sheds at the Nelson Mandela Middle School.

Once, William had got caught, but he was let off with a caution seeing as how he was below the age of criminal responsibility.

Not that William would have minded going to court. It would have been a bit of an adventure. He fancied an Asbo. All the other kids had at least one.

The Outlaws were waiting for him at the pavilion, along with that annoying minx, Violet Elizabeth Bott. She was a spoiled brat, always hanging around.

William put up with her because her dad was a rich man, made a lot of a money from wind farms, apparently, though William had never heard of anyone farming wind before.

Now Violet's dad was a member of the House of Lords. Mr Brown, William's father, said he only got his peerage because he gave a lot of money to the Labour Party. And he was rumoured to have a house in Barbados. William didn't know where Barbados was, but it was said that the Prime Minister spent his holidays at Lord Bott's house.

William's father was bitter because after he lost his job at the bank, he discovered that his pension was worthless. He took to drink and was reduced to selling the Big Issue outside the railway station.

William's mum used to work as a receptionist at the cottage hospital but that was closed down because of the 'Cuts'.

William thought that might be why Dr Rafsanjani had blown himself up at the local bus station.

Brushing aside the discarded syringes, William sat on the steps of the pavilion, tipped the glue into the paper bag and inhaled deeply. He took a swig of Special Brew and handed the bag to the gang.

"I want some, give it to me," said Violet Elizabeth Bott, who had recently had a serpent tattooed on the base of her spine and announced that she wanted to be known as Vi B.

"Get lost, bitch," said William. "I'll scweam and scweam until I'm sick," hollered Vi B.

"Shut up, unless you want a slap. Soon as you're old enough I'm putting you on the game," said William.

"We goin' burglin' agin?" asked one of the Outlaws.

"Nah, burglin's borin," yawned William, as the glue fumes hit the spot. "Hey, you lot. I've got a wizard wheeze. Let's carjack ourselves an SUV and go joyridin' down the precinct. Maybe do a bit of drive-by shootin'.

"I wouldn't mind a pop at the Acacia Avenue Posse, teach them a bit of respect, innit."

"I want to come," scweamed Vi B, fingering the cheap ring in her pierced navel, which had turned septic.

"Carjackin's not for girls," said William. "Shopliftin's more your girls' lark. Why don't you scoot off down the arcade and see if you can thieve me one of them new iPhones. Then I might just let you have a sniff of this glue." "But I could get nicked," protested Vi B.

"About as much chance of that as getting a vote on the European Constitution," said William, popping the seal on another can of wife-beater.

"Anyway, even if you do, it's no sweat. Just plead yuman rites."

"What's yuman rites?" asked Vi B, sucking a Bacardi Breezer.

"Them's things what means you don't ever get punished properly, no matter what you've done. I heard you can even get away with stabbing a headmaster to death."

"Ree-ealy?" "Yes, really. Now go and liberate me an iPhone, but don't do nuffink stupid like throwing a sausage at no one, uvverwise the Old Bill will be all over you like a cheap suit."