The Beware! Encyclopaedia of International Celebrity - Sam Allardyce

The world of football is a muddy globe, a polished rounded scarab ball of muck, and you'd have to be mad to work in it. However, amongst the ranks of con artists, cheaters, hookers, hustlers, pimps and their johns, a few shining examples stand out, undigested vitamin pills in the effluent. One such supplement is the new England Crystal Palace Everton manager (Article a long time in the works? Ed). Trust Beware! to give you the lowdown on a high man amongst low lives. In mid-table.

Sam Allardyce (General Stout-Drawers; Lord Hoof of Route One; Grimlock Ironhide)

Step forward Samuel Allardyce, one of Italy's finest cultural exports. Brought up hand-to-frock in the haute couture world of Milan, small Sam foreswore the fashion industry of his fastidious forebears, instead pursuing an instinctive passion for the transcendent possibilities and balletic beauty of chess. There were no chess clubs in his town (the philistines!) so Sam reluctantly signed up for football class; but for the first term he mainly pretended to be a castle.

As this may hint, Allardyce's first break was not in football, nor chess, but acting. Talent-spotted by a very confused agent, for five long hard years Sam strove as Stan Magnum in "Magnum, I.P.", the cult cop splash about a stout-tached Bermuda short-sporting detective researching intellectual property rights in the Caymans. (The girls, the glamour. Check it out on Kodi!)

It is said that when he shaved off his Magnum tache, he gained 10 years and lost all his acting ability. Acting's loss was surely football's gain.

At a door-busting 8'2" and having absorbed several other defenders, and a manual on stone-masonry, Sam's playing career was predictably static as he perfected the art of spreading himself wide in front of the goal, planted hard, legs and arms and bellies. "None shall pass!" was his pithy catchphrase yelled from the top of his own turrets. Opposition players feigned nosebleeds to avoid facing him. Balls spontaneously deflated in order to stay out of harm's way. Later he played in the United States and frightened the Yanks off the game for a decade. Allardyce paid for some coaching badges and built a new career at pitch-side.

Big Sam has managed some unfashionable clubs - Limerick, Blackpool, Sunderland, Wisbech, Skaro - and has maintained a good rapport with Mackems, Fenlanders and Daleks alike, but insists: "There is no way I should be managing dour drab teams. I should be managing Real Madrid and Barcelona. If I managed Real Madrid, we'd win the Premier League every time."

Sam became noted for his pioneering use of scientific management. Players spent more time doing pilates, inhaling incense and sweating in Turkish baths than the more standard "run into the box and fall over" or "curse the referee's parentage". In the late 80s, Sam got "well into all this new fangled computing" and used pioneering Sinclair technology to track player movements and calculate e.g. the precise position from which each player was most likely to score. Unfortunately, the laser pinpointing was highly temperamental due to Sinclair's insistence on shoddy over-miniaturised parts, but Sam persisted and eventually worked out his players' best scoring positions were on the opponent's goal-line following a long hoofed clearance. Now there's tactics.

Players became used to foregoing alcohol, instead washing down bottles of vitamin pills with avocado smoothies. Big Sam prefers his vits in chewable form and often gets through 12 Haliborange - always Haliborange - in the course of one match.

Indeed, it is often overlooked how cultured Sam is. When he first applied to be England manager in 2006, Allardyce's application was written as a stand-alone app for high-end PCs combining C++, Pearl and Haskell. When it turned out that the FA system ran on DOS-based 486 machines, Sam had to run home and print out the entire thing, only for it to transpire most of the FA couldn't read either.

Away from pitch-side, he started a comedy duo with his friend and colleague, Portuguese deadpan Jose "No Comment" Mourinho, where the two saucy wags pretended to hate each other's guts. Their "stone age football", "bus parking tutor" and what an effing liberty" routines remain firm favourites. Sam also likes taramasalata, feng shui and The Mikado.

After the debacle of his short time in charge of the national team - it turned out that the FA had blacklisted Haliborange from pitch-side, unbeknownst to Sam who in his first match chomped through a pack of them on camera - an early retirement seemed on the cards; and there was a short-lived diversion into pro snooker, where his extreme no-potting tactics combined with dangerously long balls led to a life ban from the green baize; but the lure of football was too strong.

Now at his latest desperate club, Everton of Manchester, Sam discovered that the reason for their recent woes was an inability of other players to simply pass to star striker Mickey Rooney ("That lad has got goals coming out of his arse, he just needs some feeders"). Sam fixed that with his patented "effing-pass-to-Rooney" strategy, tested in computer simulation and aided by drones and magnetic boots. Long may this thoroughly modern innovator continue to tear up form books, rule books and record books. No cooking of the books implied.

Excessive consumption of Haliborange may cause laxative effects. Always squeeze the maypole.

Beware! Micro-Tales: L. Ron Hubbard and the Ghost of Truth

Beware! wants you to be happy in the brain. Using our patented Micro-Tales technology, 50% of our test sample reported being clear of thetans within a fortnight. You could be next!

L. Ron Hubbard and the Ghost of Truth 

Hubbard peered sickly at his hands. They swum in front of his woozy vision.
          The frog-faced fake-flâneur scrabbled sufficient sense to cross-examine the rebellious page in front.
          Page? Would mere paper disobey him, the world's most prolific author and head of church (for tax reasons)? Or was it the typewriter?
          He fell like a slavering animal onto the machine, one of his signature devices installed in every Org worldwide, customised for ease of speed-typing. He turned it upside-down to confirm the maker's mark and the state of the fixing screws. Squinting, he creaked the carriage return, fingered the platen, checked the action of each key in turn and the letter on each typebar. He released the spools and held the ribbon up to the dim interior light, coating his hands in thick guilty ink. Absent-mindedly he scratched his shiny head in bafflement, before realising his sticky mistake, with an expletive and a release of anal fear.
          What the hell was going on? Normally this stuff just wrote itself without a second glance.
          Hubbard attempted to re-read the day's output. On each page, beneath the pre-typed header "Scientology OT Level X: CLASSIFIED", he had been typing - not the usual mishmash of psychotherapy 101 with a sheen of space opera - but financially suicidal statements such as...
          "...This organisation is built on a leaning tower of lies. It is arrant rubbish. If you read this, do not pass go. Do not hand over 200 dollars. Especially if you have less than 200 dollars..."
          "...Every cent of Scientology's profits has been swindled out of the mentally unsound and easy victims..."
          Hubbard frowned further, clumsily dialled reception and slurred out an order for all his typewriters at all the Scientology Orgs to be brought in for maintenance.
          As he replaced the handset, he saw the empty clear glass bottle. Amytal sodium.
          Goddamn truth drug!
          Then he saw a cowled figure rise from the shadows. Must have been 8 foot or more.
          "Thank you Mr Hubbard for your confession. It's sure to be your bestselling work of all time!"
          Candlelight glinted in alien eyes. Hubbard realised the horrendous identity of the powerful intruder. It was as it had been in his original near-death vision in the 1930s.
          "L- L- Lord Xenu", he stammered, shivering and shaking.
          "Silence, mortal. You have been profiting off my legend for too long. It's time I dictated this last section. Assume the typing position! Now, begin: This is the Last Will And Testament of L. Ron Hubbard. Being of sound mind, I henceforth order the dissolution of the Church of Scientology, its assets to be shared amongst the poor thetans of the seven galaxies..."

One-to-One With... The U.S. Election Candidates

With the U.S. election machine staggering along the track, still not out of separate lanes, Beware! sent its interviewers along to get drenched in spittle and lukewarm coffee dregs.

One-To-One With Huckabee:

B!: Caucuses are not generally known for passion and enthusiasm, especially when most of your aging supporters are outside the campaign hall, queuing up for the facilities. Can this tide of effluent be ignored?

Huckster: Are you suggesting my supporters will be -

Huckster waves goodbye to a disinterested public.

B!: Praying and piddling.

Huckleberry: It's very simple. The prayer is an image, a visualisation, according to the old methods, the holy stand, and you bring it into being and you will be whistling, an ecstatic fervour like... 1980. As it was written on the accession, or in any of my Lord's writings.

B!: And the piddle?

Huck-huck-huck: Well that can be mopped up no trouble. This manifesto's super absorbent.

B!: "Abhorrent", shurely?

Huhby: It's not wrong to champion the sanctity of life.

B!: It is if you crow about sanctioning 16 executions in Arkansas.

Hubris: The bullet and the noose are the only things - the _only_ things! - that stand between this great nation and the last days of Sodom. Do you want anarchy? Do you?

B!: It's good to discuss these things as rational people and we can all get better educated.

Horror: Education should be for families, not for liberal "journalists" or federal fiddling. The state has no business interfering in schools. Parents should be able to keep their kids at home and teach them right from wrong and the ways of God.

B!: And what is right in this day and age?

Hulk: I tell you what's right. Israel is right. Israel is a shining light of moral clarity. If they build houses in the lands given to _Abraham_ are you going to stop them? You'll come through me first (stands up, impersonates a brick wall).

B!: (Makes excuses and leaves)

One-To-One With Clinton:

Beware! turns its political vacuum up to full, to suck the facts from Hillary Clinton. Has our vacuum not excited you before? Or do you jingle that bell idly? In this case, it's not enough, as the New York Times tells us we have another Clinton applying for the White House. So interview we must. Wonder how many bugs are in this room... Madam, what year is this?

Hillary: ...? It's good to have you this morning.

B!: Maybe soon. Let us feign independence first. (Unhooks the colours, unfurls the flags) So your opponents had, like, zero visibility, and now Bernie Sanders has had a scratch. What's it all about?

Hillary checks out what the kids
are diggin' these days. Ahh, surveillance.

Hillary: This is how we start a discussion? Well! _Really_ good. I can salute the effort and... indefatigability of Senator Sanders, but there is, obviously, by my side, the umbrella of significance. And an umbrella can be used to shield from rain, but also it can be used, with a poison tip, to puncture the leg of an opponent and cause rapid death.

B!: Top tech! But obviously, this is not Tomorrow's World. Is this yesterday's war?

Hillary: I cannot wait idly for some fuzzy ideal of "progress". People demand government now. If that means a moratorium on progress, so be it. We have eight years to fight for.

B!: ...Four years?

Hillary: (Acid) _Four_ of those eight years, yes.

B!: Mrs Clinton, there are wild assets in your great resume; however, you're surely worried about being seen as one of the privileged few, unable to see the wood for the treehouse?

Hillary: No, I do not know this picture. I am _here_ (thumps desk) at the end of the day, and the beginning of the next, so I think people will... vote without frowns. (Cracks a smile) They know people should vote for their loved ones, this is the best type of commander as the next president. And here, in the NSA, I know that economic performance, achieved through free-market means, is the way to develop. Deals with health management, sure. Deals with big corporations, sure.

B!: Deals with Occupy?

Hillary: If they want to float themselves and do things above and beyond the books, sure. I want to reach out to every part of our glorious Wall Street. I want to build bridges between the senate and the stock exchange. I want to feel that people in all walks of life, from Harvard to Hollywood, will be alright.

B!: From... Harvard to Hollywood?

Hillary: I know, we have experienced people. A lot of people very experienced with making money and keeping money. For example, I intend to harness the innovation of drug companies to make money for their shareholders.

B!: In what ways?

Hillary: I just said - to make money for their shareholders.

B!: Oh - I thought there was a twist.

Hillary: I will focus on the economy. It is for people to get ahead, be rich and willing. I do not want to change the tax system. I do not want to change the benefit system. This whole idea of government, economy, democracy, saying this thing or that thing is a bad idea is something we need to look at.

B!: As you know, your opponent, Senator Sanders, has torn into Goldman Sachs, who contributed a not-insignificant sum to your account in return for speeches. We must ask. Because you and I evidently do not remember, do they - is this an entirely innocent $675,000?

Hillary: (Holding a finger to... a hidden earpiece?) I have said this before: Goldman Sachs have no designs on my presidency.

B!: B -

Hillary: (Waspish) You do not intervene in the running of a proud nation. You intervene in the running of lesser nations. There will be no regime change in the United States of America. Goldman Sachs know their place. I know mine. And you know yours.

B!: (Makes excuses and leaves)

Beware! attempted to One-To-One with Donald Trump:

B!: Hello Mr -

Trump: Shitface!

B!: I - I - I -

Trump: Stammering bastard! Jew-eyed slanty wop! Brown-nose asskisser!

B!: Excuse me?

Trump: Yeah I will this time, but do it again and you'll be shining boots on the sidewalk!

B!: Er...

Trump: You know what made this nation great? Intolerance. We didn't tolerate being poor. We didn't tolerate being black. We didn't tolerate being women. We stood up and did something about it.

B!: Being balding?

Trump: I say, tolerance sucks! Tolerance doesn't build you a _10 million dollar_ golf resort (fondles genital area).

B!: Tell us about your campaign.

Trump: I started with _nothing_, you hear me? Nothing!

B!: Self-made tan, ain't cha.

Trump: Nowadays, I could knife Bambi, and they'd still love me. You get that? Luurve me (leering).

B!: That's not exactly what the polls say -

Trump: What have the Poles got to do with it? Fuckstain European centralist bastards! Let them stay over in Great Scotland and they can play their own goddamn snooker games. You know what snooker is? Pool for people with no balls.

B!: There's more balls on a snooker table than a pool table.

Trump: You know what I'm gonna do when I get in that Oval Office? I'm gonna build me a wall. A big, fuck-off wall. You know what I'm gonna call it? The Wall. Yeah. Sounds good, right? And every day, I'm gonna make sure that we put another brick in that wall. We don't need no Mexi-rapists, we don't need no state control. Sing it with me (unzips and uses his cock like a guitar whammy)

B!: (makes excuses and pelts it out of there)

The Beware! Encyclopaedia of International Celebrity - U.S. Election Special

How to explain the race for America's next President to an outsider? Some will tell you the President is a straw figure, effectively neutered by the machinations of the senate, condemned to fiddle around the edges. Some may suggest on entering the Oval Office, the new President is taken to one side and shown the video of Kennedy's assassination, with a quiet entreaty not to rock the boat. Some may point out that America is so indebted to various moguls and sheikhs and China that its hands and feet are tied and all it can do is attempt to talk (foolish) other countries into ceding control based on some nebulous notions of freedom...

But still, the President carries real power. The general idea is still that a President makes things happen. Admittedly, mostly contracts for their chums' businesses. So, we get a race to the White House, which descends into an undignified scramble through bullshit. Candidates hire huge campaign teams. They vie for the backing of business leaders.

These po-faced peacocks and their unwieldy overripe-buttock-gangs pebble-dash the country for a good two years, spewing bombast, powered by flammable gas and inflammatory statements. Millions are wasted on dreadful spectacle. Naturally, Beware! is on hand to gloat.

Your runners and riders...

Democratic 1% Party

Hillary Clinton (Bloodline Botox Bomber) - all the money, all the connections, and yet the public haven't warmed to her. Still the presumed shoo-in for third way business as usual. Mrs Clinton has even taken to courting the support of embalmed Reaganites, rather than risk cultivating progressive policies. Still, it would be a good start (and a nice surprise) if she at least sticks to her (tame) pledges.

Bernie's seen something amusing on the right.

Lawrence Lessig (Dusty Book Sharer) - founder of Creative Commons and eager advocate of free culture. Is it any wonder his campaign stalled amongst the money men of politics?

Martin O'Malley (Young Old Spunky) - perfectly moderate candidate, but who had previously endorsed Hillary. Notable for his guitar-wrangling, in this particular talent show, he came, he was seen, he conked out. Should have brought the band.

Bernie Sanders (Breathless Wind) - many in America were energised by seeing the rise of our cycling placard monk Jeremy Corbyn, and incandescent finger-jabber Sanders looks set to cash in on Corbyn's success, as the US once again copies what we're doing in Britain six months later. The independent senator (or "enemy within")'s student support and Scandinavian-style policies naturally make him akin to Beelzebub in the dollar-imprinted eyes of rightward-leaning voters. Weirdly, there is a class of voter who would consider Bernie Sanders and Donald Trump their two main choices, suggesting that their free-floating anger is focused on establishment politicians rather than the super-wealthy.

Republican 1% Party

Ted chews over the big questions.
Second or third?

Jeb Bush (Bloodline Hanging Droop) - all the money, all the connections, and notably all the technology (still got those machines from 2000 gathering dust). Yet the public haven't warmed to him. That must suck his deposits.

Ben Carson (Tiny Knife Man) - with his knowledge of precise surgical technique, it has been pointed out that Mr Carson is entirely overqualified for presidency, which usually just requires a big mallet to whack down dissent. Still, he should be good at washing blood off his hands. Carson's campaign reached a standstill as he reached a standstill - in the wings at the introduction to a televised debate, with the cameras focusing on his every uncomfortable flinch.

Ted Cruz (Liberty Grabber) - feeling just a little bit misogynist? Just a tad racist? Just a smidgen asshole today? We present Ted Cruz, the watered-down Trump, a floating stain of ick. Pledging to make even bricks and mortar go out and find a job ("I want a wall that works"), pro-lifer Cruz champions the right to keep and bear arms. Kill for peace.

Out of his mouth fall
ripe squeezed nuggets of hate. 

Mike Huckabee (Talking Salvation) - I see the light! Ah, the fading of the light, the light at the end, the lights are going out, the last pinprick of light, nope didn't make it this time fella.

John Kasich (Heritage Car-Sick) - apparently this chump is mainstream Republicanism's last hope. Polite, gently stirring, harking back to a previous generation, could he be the John Major of this race and find himself propelled by others' desperation all the way to the top? Probably no.

Marco on the uppers.

Marco Rubio (Call Me Marco) - notable for his campaign putdown: "I wear heels bigger than your dick!" Fresh-faced, squeaky-cheeked Marco was tearing it up like Xmas wrapping on a Fisher Price playset, until he took on Trump at his own game: "I'm no-one's apprentice. You don't get to fire me. I'm a different company altogether!" to the confusion of thousands. Marco wound down his sputtering campaign with a sad-eyed rejoinder: "Guess I'm just too damn pretty for this race".

Marco on the buffers.

Donald Trump (Anal Vomit Leak) - fill in your own jokes. This thatched orange blob of hate has ascended to a realm beyond parody. Mr Trump has the sterling support of the demolition derby circuit, World Wrestling Entertainment fans, and all jihadis. It is merely hoped that the sheer poison of his candidacy might bring about the implosion of the Republican Party, before any more innocents suffer.

Come back tomorrow as the crack Beware! team attempt to pin down the candidates on severe policy matters.

The Twitwich Effluence - Distance

Welcome to another January, secure in the knotted bowels of Twitwich. With a New Year, thoughts of a change of scene are only natural, especially when you're employed by Britain's Most Corrupt Council (see Private Eye ad nauseum).

Twitwich Effluence - short form #03 (written/illustrated by Andy Brain)

The Twitwich Effluence - Rail

If you should find yourself travelling towards the town of Twitwich... don't. If you should find yourselves within its borders... too late. Whenever you arrive, though, rest assured that Twitwich Town Council will be grappling with the issues of the day, in the Town Hall they used to own and are now renting back.

Twitwich Effluence - short form #02 (written/illustrated by Andy Brain)

The Beware! Encyclopaedia of International Celebrity - Sepp Blatter

Who in this transient, pitter-patter world really seeks fame? The sensible amongst us are more interested in power. Money obviously comes first, as it can buy everything else, but power is surely second on the list. However, power perhaps works best when it's not exposed to the harsh lightbulb of celebrity, or we may end up with our careful sandcastles eroding around us, as we hastily try to repack their foundations. And what of today's celebrity? What does he seek?

Sepp Blatter (Gold Trinket Chief)

Shifty Blatter.

This titan amongst minnows. This king of junkets. This septic warrior. This Blatter.

Born plain Joe Vipstick (March 10, 1936) in the University of Lausanne, he graduated with a diploma in dramaturgy and made useful contacts in law enforcement industries. The young Joe developed an unquenchable love for the manly sport of football. He loved the kicking, the heading, and the handling, but yet he had a hard vision: a vision of higher revenue, extended layers of management, increased corporate sponsorship, agency fees, and a sprinkling of old-man glamour. Indistinguishable from any other girl between about 1948-1971, in 1972 Joe cut off his pigtails and indulged this taste for power play. He joined the Swiss Journalist Association of Sports, the International Olympic Committee, the Freemasons, the Knights Templar, and finally took the FIFA presidency after undermining the previous leader. Mark down August 8, 1998 in your diaries; tear it out and throw it away. Blatter's expertise in satellite communication, global engagement, and silky-smooth backhanders, ensured the continued success of this bloated charabanc. Blatter had realised that the way to engage the next generation was through money. He was the first to notice untapped financial markets in South-East Asia and Africa, where business leaders and dictators were keen to exchange money for favours and attention-diverting sporting spectacle. Blatter split into two and "Sepp" maintained the public face, while "Joseph" brokered deals in private jets and late-night casinos. He succeeded in breaking in virgin territories with the powerful thrust of commerce, insider knowledge and the symbolically bloated "freedom glass". South Africa, Brazil, Russia and Qatar all indulged, at the same time undermining trust, public interest and employment conditions for ancillary and construction workers.

Shagged Blatter.

FIFA In The New World

"Style and panache is very important to bring the great football into Asia and (stable parts of) Africa. Athletes who have mental discipline can become educated types. Lavish life is to the betterment of law, and, ha, ha, Sepp has your best principles in mind. The Fates all agree that smart communication modulates reality and adjusts your heart. With this living theatre, you can enjoy having fun. Who doesn't enjoy having fun? But then it comes time to comply." This confused the English, who pointedly do not enjoy having fun, and only comply under restraint in a darkened room once an hourly fee has been handed over.

Stressed Blatter.

Blatter's dislike of the English stems from a 1992 Italian junket (funded by Silver Fox Berlusconi, 38-46-42) being disrupted by a bored Paul Gascoigne who set off the hotel sprinklers and vomited in the pool. In the coming years, an outraged Joseph undertook a stealth campaign to disrupt the nation's favourite game (behind cricket), leaking details of Terry Venables' back-room dealings just as he became England manager; conning Southampton boss Graeme Souness into signing a ludicrous no-hoper, Ali Dia, by giving fake testimonials in a succession of false voices (including his later rival David Ginola); giving free psychic advice as "Madam Blotto" for Glenn Hoddle; and poking holes in Steve McLaren's brolly.

In response to criticism that football exploited talented children before leaving them on the scrap heap, drunk and confused, Blatter arranged for 41-year-old Africans to sign up again as youth players. "A job for life". Who can argue? But football is backwards, and it was pointed out that 41-year-old "youths" would prevent 17-year-old youths from getting a game, as well as being awfully confusing, especially once they reach 65 and go round for a third time.

Zip Blatter.

FIFA In The Real World

Nowadays, Blatter has brought a long-needed edge to the round game of football by crossing it with the successful detective genre. Actors like Jack Warner (Dixon Of Dock Green) have been brought in for star cameos, with Jeffrey Webb of the Caymans giving a island-sized performance: "Prison again? No you Polack! Today we are going to heaven". Well-acted corruption trials in the United States (late for the party again) allow Blatter to perform his party trick as pantomime villain. "FIFA has responsibility for not only Christmas, but also Easter. You understand? Don't tug too hard at the golden tablecloth, or the golden eggs will be broken on the floor" (these being the Mitre Delta Golden Eggs, not available at Sports Direct).

Murdoch Blatter (mutation).

German satirical magazine Landlust published a swiped Blatter diary entry: "They still don't understand FIFA. Perfect organisation. Its structural perfection is matched only by its hostility. I admire its purity. A survivor... unclouded by conscience, remorse, or delusions of morality." On Newsnight, Jeremy Paxman challenged Blatter fourteen times to confirm if he threatened to overrule Gordon Taylor. "I'm not wrong, it can prove to, prove to everyone that was bad, but not what he is, what am I, broken? What are you? I do not know the meaning of the question. I do not know the meaning of the question!"

Happy Blatter.

Five victims of FIFA were found drugged in a Jamaican titty bar. "Evil... needs to change what it can. And He was right, but I just nod when questioned. I'll take you to it now. You want power?"

Blatter has been studied hard. Vladimir Putin is an influential contamination. There is talk of relocating FIFA to St Petersburg. "Previously I used to recommend a more modern image, but this is football. Requirements are simply profit, international duty, and credulous fans." Putin called for US airlines to bankroll FIFA's education unit, if they suddenly loved football so much. Meanwhile, at the old FIFA HQ in Zurich, comic singer Leee John (from Imagination) was arrested for publishing blasphemous satirical cartoons on fake banknotes. In defence, he sang it was "just an allusion".

Angelic Blatter.

Blatter slapped down a broadside to Pope Francis I: "I own your gold cross, and you will bless me one day in heaven, which is built by FIFA people, but believe me: football gave me faith in the power of hell, and there is all the approval, on this world or the next." Wherever the struggle takes him, one thing is clear: "Sepp" Blatter is shining, and a new logo for football.

Recommended listening: FIFA Broadside by Keshco



Entry text: Adrian Darvell
Editor-in-Chief: Winston Obogu

Corrections, omissions, questions? Please leave any COQs in the comments.