“Oo Edna have you seen how everyone’s an extremist nowadays my Bert said he’d been radicalised by my custard last night and then he flew to Syria and suicide-bombed a custard factory I mean no-one’s safe are they I heard Edna’s sister Edna’s brother’s aunt Edna went and shot 14 people in a museum because she thought it was a dangerous art movement of course I blame that nice Tony Blair now if you’ll excuse me Edna I’ve got to go and suicide bomb the post office.”
While the thieving antics of brass-necked money-hugger Maria Miller MP have dominated the news the government has used the story as cover to quietly announce that wasps will no longer be free at the point of delivery. This means that anyone who sees, interacts or engages with a wasp must pay a charge to one of the thousands of wasp enforcement officers who will be employed to weed out so-called “wasp scroungers”.
In the 19th century wasps were regarded as a luxury available only to the wealthy, but in 1904 Liberal MP Herbert Henry Asquith proposed a radical change in wasp policy that would make wasps available to all. “Wasps,” he said in a Commons speech on May the 6th of that year, “Are not just playthings for the well-off. Every man, woman and child in this country should have access to free wasps, whether they like it or not.”
It is estimated that the coalition government will make £34.5 million per year from the Wasp Tax, either in legitimate charges or in fines for non-payment. Non-payers could also face up to three months in prison.
To sign an online petition calling for the repeal of the Wasp Tax, sign the online petition at http://www.nobodygivesafuckingfuckaboutonlinepetitions.gov.uk/.
In his office at 10 Downing Street, a naked and brooding David Cameron strapped a hunting knife to his thigh and applied camouflage make-up to his entire body. If those cowardly MPs wouldn’t help Syria, he thought, he’d just have to do it himself.
“Not so fast, Cam old friend,” the booming note of a familiar voice broke the pregnant silence.
Cameron looked up to see Nigel Farage standing at the door to his office. He was naked too, and was resting his camouflaged arms on the biggest machine gun the Prime Minister had ever seen.
“If you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do,” Farage said, a smile playing across his manly lips, “You’re going to need a wing man.”
Cameron’s expression was grave. “You know this is a one way trip, right?” he said.
Farage smirked. “I always buy a return ticket,” he said. “Just in case.”
The two men strode out of Cameron’s office and, as they made their way down the corridor and towards the most dangerous mission of their lives, naked, heavily armed and camouflaged men appeared from every doorway. Clegg. Gove. Osborne. Hague. Johnson. Hammond. Clarke. Fox. Hunt. May. Cable. Duncan Smith.
“Well now,” Cameron quipped through clenched teeth as he kicked open the iconic Downing Street front door and marched into the morning sunlight. “It looks like we’re putting the band back together.”
As a person with a light but pretty decent grasp on what is happening in Syria, I have become compelled over the course of this morning to voice my thoughts to the widest number of people who aren’t really all that interested. Welcome.
It’s safe to say that things in Syria aren’t good. Indeed, it could easily be said that things are quite bad but, for almost 15 minutes now I have given the problem some thought, and I believe I have come up with, in my opinion, an ingenious solution.
A civil war is never black-and-white and there are, in my opinion, upwards of four shades of grey muddying this whole darned Syrian kerfuffle, which is more than the average person could possibly grasp. But grasped it I have, and my idea to peacefully resolve this crisis is, in my opinion, achingly simple.
If you ask me – and no-one has yet – what Syria lacks and has lacked for some time is a decent pop-up artisan boulangerie. Anyone who knows me knows my core belief: that nothing soothes the soul like a wholewheat croissant slathered in organic alpaca butter, and I believe if the so-called, in my opinion, United Nations was to air-drop a few dozen bio-degradable kiosks laden with hand-crafted breads and pastries into the heart of the fighting everyone, in my opinion, would lay down their weapons and be chowing down on crusty stone-baked yam-bread rolls (with a filling of their choice) and sipping responsibly sourced fair-trade nettle juice by sundown.
This might, in my opinion, be a hard pill for the governments and the committees and the councils and the “experts” of the world to swallow but, in a tricky political hot potato like this, our leaders need to use their loaf (ha!), step carefully outside the recyclable box and into, in my opinion, fresh-baked bliss.
Guns For Buns. Worth thinking about.
1. “I have a very specific skill set.”
2. “That’ll ruin your day.”
3. “How’s that working out for you?”
4. “Let’s roll.”
Parking permits for dogs; high court judges blowing kisses; a council estate overrun with eels; a dejected newsagent; 42-inch wall-mounted 3D flatscreen TVs showing adverts for pickled onions; an unmanned lighthouse; small frogs covered in graffiti; Legs & Co; hard water; Isambard Kingdom Brunel taking a nun hostage for his own perverted desires; a man holding a can of lager and urinating on a puppy; a teenager having sex with a car park; laminated notices; soft water; a friendly white-haired paedophile hosting a TV show; a policeman shooting a cow in the face; a sad wheel-clamped pensioner; wet sandwiches; limescale; children stabbing each other on the internet; a politician laughing as he happy slaps your mum; James fucking Corden. This is our Britain.
Margaret Thatcher was a woman. A woman and a prime minister. A lover and a fighter. A tap dancer and a geologist. Like chocolate or dog shit, some people liked her, and some people didn’t. Anyway, she’s dead, so that puts an end to the matter.
Margaret Linda Toxteth Thatcher was born in a skip of gravel in 1901 to parents Askwith and Pargenon at the height of the Great Apathy. At the age of two, she closed down her father’s successful trouser mining business and by the age of five she had sold the street in which she lived to private businessmen, who levelled it and used the land to build a successful trouser mining business.
As World War I swung into action she joined the navy as a terrible barber before being redeployed as a naval mine in the Aegean Sea, where she spent four awkward years sinking unsuspecting battleships with her face. For her bravery and distinguished bobbing ability she was awarded an Iron Cross, and it was this that earned Thatcher her famous nickname, ‘The Exploding Lady’.
At the end of the war, Thatcher found work in Leeds as a burlesque dancer, calling herself ‘The Knockers Of The North’. It was in the club where she worked, The Naughty Bustard, that she first met the love of her life and the man who would become her husband, lion-taming big band leader Dennis Skinner.
After a whirlwind romance, interrupted only by World War II, Skinner gave birth to twins Mark and Carol through a special spout installed by the Nazis after a particularly raucous party he attended with his wife-to-be. Thatcher had joined the army in 1939 and, smitten, Dennis had followed her. The pair worked as double agents, infiltrating the Nazi social scene in order to party with Hitler and learn vital war secrets, an endeavour that earned Thatcher the famous nickname ‘Iron Guts O’Halloran’ and left Dennis a raging alcoholic.
After killing Hitler with her barbaric vagina in an underground nightclub in 1945, Thatcher returned to England and entered politics, becoming the first woman in Britain to punch her way to an election victory. From there, the woman known to many as Stinky McGiffin strode across the male-dominated political landscape like an average-sized woman-type human being with a slightly wider pelvis in a dress.
But it was in a brutal cage fight with Welsh thunderer Neil Kinnock that Thatcher finally reached the peak of her political career, knocking out the Sickening Slaphead in the 30th minute with her trademark handbag of bricks and winning the title of World Champion Prime Minister of Great Britain. It was from this lofty position of power that she could finally indulge her lifelong hatred of coal.
Thatcher also used her office to slake her bloodlust, famously sinking the Falkland Islands in 1985 in an attempt to goad Argentina into war. The attempt worked. For three noisy years, British and Argentine battleships hurled submarines at each other from as little as 30 feet apart and, for their troubles, more than 2 million men and fish were killed, earning the prime minister the famous nickname ‘The Bad Lady’.
But Thatcher’s insatiable desire to destroy the universe had earned her enemies and, on the 30th of November 1991, Nigel Lawson sapped the prime minister with a pillow case full of apples and dumped her limp frame in a skip outside No.10 Downing Street. The Unconscious Lady’s reign was badly over.
Devastated by the betrayal and in need of employment, Thatcher turned her hand to the lucrative stripogram business, working the pubs and clubs of North London armed with nothing more than natural talent and a can of shaving foam, and bringing a seedy form of happiness to hundreds of unpleasant men. It is for this, more than the other things, that she will be most fondly remembered.