Brighton's population of wasters, thieves and hangers-on soared today, as the Labour Party descended on the seedy south coast resort for its annual conference.
PM Gordon Brown was one of the first to arrive, as a US government jet swooped low over the beach and threw him into the sea.
Floundering ashore, the prime minister quickly stripped off his bedraggled clothing and strolled proudly up and down the naturist beach, where several of his ministers already lay exposed for all to see.
Many Brighton residents are sick and tired of the undesirables attracted by the Labour Party, however.
"Nobody wants to see these fat cats flaunting themselves shamelessly in public," said one respectable local drug addict. "They haven't got a stitch to cover their embarrassment, but they just don't care."
"They have the gall to come down here and strut around like that. It's more than offensive - it's obscene," added his alcoholic friend, a pillar of the local shoplifting community. "Every year this disgusting display attracts undesirables of every cast and hue. Look over there by the bus shelter - see that little creep with the binoculars? That's David Cameron, trying to catch a glimpse of any fatuous election promises he can add to his depraved collection."
Conference-goers, however, shrugged and said the naked politicians were simply enjoying a harmless, if slightly eccentric pastime which nobody else paid much attention to.
"There was a time when Alistair Darling used to run around with a huge erection," said one saggy conference veteran. "But nobody took any notice of him even then, and this year he's just a useless dangling appendage that people point to and laugh. Please, let us have our fun. You'll find that most people will be happy to turn their backs on us, and pretty soon we'll pack their bags and go away."
Saturday, 26 September 2009
Hippocratic Oath To Be Replaced By Hitlercratic Oath
The General Medical Council has today issued new guidelines to Britain's doctors, telling them to abandon the basic principles of medical confidentiality on which the entire healthcare sector rests, and share your medical details with anyone they, in their Godlike wisdom, decide might like to see them.
"There's no need for the idiot public to worry their stupid heads about this," scowled Jane Strangelove, the GMC's head of standards and ethics, who came up with the proposals after reading a book about Nazi medical experiments. "As far as they know, this is all about reducing knife crime. Quite how grassing up somebody who chopped their fingertip off as they were dicing carrots will do that, we don't really know - but people who aren't doctors are notoriously stupid, so no doubt the Sun will come up with some fuzzy logic to paper over the cracks."
Under the new plans, GPs will also be able to notify a policeman sitting in the corner of the consulting room if they think a patient has committed, or may commit, a crime.
"Ever since the infallible Dr Watson gave his invaluable assistance to the world's leading detective, the professional medic's aptitude for detecting crime even before it occurs has been well-documented," screamed the black-uniformed Ms Strangelove. "We have access to key medical information, such as the tell-tale shape of criminals' heads and their racial characteristics, which our onerous but well-rewarded responsibility as servants of the all-powerful state compels us to hand over to the police, so they can better carry out their honourable duty of locking people up for crimes they haven't committed."
GPs will also be urged to release confidential information about patients' hereditary conditions to any or all of their relatives, regardless of the patient's wishes.
"Let us imagine that a patient has a terrible genetic disorder which they could pass on to their children, such as autism, ginger hair or a tendency to run to fat in their thirties," screeched Ms Strangelove, thumping the rostrum for emphasis. "Does a doctor not have the moral right - indeed, the moral imperative - to warn their partner and in-laws that the sub-human cripples doomed to issue from this miscegenated union will be nothing but a burden on them and, more importantly, the state?"
Doctors, police chiefs and NHS budget managers leapt to their feet and cheered their support for the new proposals, before rushing back to their practices to weed out the enemies of the state.
"There's no need for the idiot public to worry their stupid heads about this," scowled Jane Strangelove, the GMC's head of standards and ethics, who came up with the proposals after reading a book about Nazi medical experiments. "As far as they know, this is all about reducing knife crime. Quite how grassing up somebody who chopped their fingertip off as they were dicing carrots will do that, we don't really know - but people who aren't doctors are notoriously stupid, so no doubt the Sun will come up with some fuzzy logic to paper over the cracks."
Under the new plans, GPs will also be able to notify a policeman sitting in the corner of the consulting room if they think a patient has committed, or may commit, a crime.
"Ever since the infallible Dr Watson gave his invaluable assistance to the world's leading detective, the professional medic's aptitude for detecting crime even before it occurs has been well-documented," screamed the black-uniformed Ms Strangelove. "We have access to key medical information, such as the tell-tale shape of criminals' heads and their racial characteristics, which our onerous but well-rewarded responsibility as servants of the all-powerful state compels us to hand over to the police, so they can better carry out their honourable duty of locking people up for crimes they haven't committed."
GPs will also be urged to release confidential information about patients' hereditary conditions to any or all of their relatives, regardless of the patient's wishes.
"Let us imagine that a patient has a terrible genetic disorder which they could pass on to their children, such as autism, ginger hair or a tendency to run to fat in their thirties," screeched Ms Strangelove, thumping the rostrum for emphasis. "Does a doctor not have the moral right - indeed, the moral imperative - to warn their partner and in-laws that the sub-human cripples doomed to issue from this miscegenated union will be nothing but a burden on them and, more importantly, the state?"
Doctors, police chiefs and NHS budget managers leapt to their feet and cheered their support for the new proposals, before rushing back to their practices to weed out the enemies of the state.
Friday, 25 September 2009
Have I Got Propaganda For You
"I wish [the BBC] would go and actively look for some Conservatives to be part of their newsgathering team." - Jeremy Hunt (shadow culture secretary)
(Frightening music and huge images of Josef Stalin, Pol Pot, Kim Jong-Il, Arthur Scargill and other murdering socialist bastards intercut with piles of skulls, weeping children, unburied bodies piled up in streets.)
Baroness Thatcher: This is the six o'clock news from the completely impartial Conservative Broadcasting Corporation.
(Brief burst of Hallelujah chorus.)
Thatcher: Ageism and rampant Leninism in the newsrooms abolished forever, says new director-general Sir Frederick Shred; Conservative scientists in Thailand make AIDS vaccine breakthrough; Tories find water on moon; exquisitely-tailored Spandau Ballet pave way for welcome return of yuppie culture.
Lord Tebbit: Good evening, scum. You're watching Conservative Party news, and don't even think about changing channels or you'll regret it. Today's main story: the entire BBC Trust has resigned in disgrace after admitting it was totally wrong to discriminate against newsreaders on the basis of age, sex or barmy right-wing views. To loud cheers from political editor Nick Robinson, the exposed communist cell was driven off to Belmarsh high-security prison to await their trial for treason. Conservative leader David Cameron (Hallelujah chorus) moved swiftly to appoint a new Board of Directors, all of whom have impeccable backgrounds in the banking and asset-stripping sectors.
Talking-head clip. (Caption: New Director-General Sir Frederick Shred)
Shred: I promise to deliver better value by abolishing the licence fee and programme-making, and making the corporation reflect the composition of its audience by showing its entire back catalogue of old football games 24 hours a day, with Bruce Forsyth and St Jeremy Clarkson inviting you to vote for your all-time favourite football match while the adverts are on.
Tebbit: And shortly after that piece was recorded, that sakcastic little trot Paxman was taken outside and shot.
Thatcher: Foreign news - and compassionate, caring Conservative scientists in Thailand have made medical history by injecting monstrous ladyboy abominations with a lethal cocktail of industrial cleaning chemicals until they stopped dying of AIDS. Over to our travel correspondent, William Hague, who chartered a jumbo jet so he could read out this press release from a beach on the other side of the world.
Hague (lying beside an azure-blue sea, with a peasant in a skimpy bikini rubbing suncream into his thighs): Aye, milady, 'appen as Britain's 'ard-workin' captains of industry will be able to spend the fruits o' their labours on a relaxin' 'oliday in Phuket, wi'out vomitin' in 'orror when they gets back to them's 'otel rooms and discover that them two sloe-eyed, slinky bints what them's been plyin' wi' drinks for the last hour 'ave 'orrible 'airy cocks 'idden away in them's bikini bottoms. (to peasant) Er... ta very much 'Sally', lass, that'll be all. Back t'you in t'studio, me inspirational anchor.
Thatcher: Thank you, William. It is hoped that the revolutionary new treatment will soon be extended to filthy shirt-lifting perverts in the UK.
Tebbit: In an exciting breakthrough, a silent majority of right-thinking space probes have discovered traces of water on the moon, leading to hopes that mankind may soon be able to establish a permanent presence on the earth's distant satellite. It turns out that the moon is so abundantly moist that a ton of lunar soil, if compacted to the size of a housebrick, may yield a small jug of water. The Tory Space Agency said it was already drawing up plans for a moonbase, to be permanently manned by the Labour Party.
Thatcher: Finally, it's a welcome return to the glorious 80s as Spandau Ballet dust off their shoulder pads, don their sharp, hand-tailored suits and release their comeback single, "It's OK To Be A Self-Centred, Soul-Crushing Creep". George Osborne, our youth correspondent, reports.
Osborne: Yes, my liege, power-dressing is set to make a welcome return to the worlds of fashion and youth culture - along with rapacious greed, undisguised contempt for the poor and an impervious feeling of supreme smugness. Back to you, mein führer.
Thatcher: Thank you, little man. Happy days are here again. And now here's the Conservative weather, which will be glorious uninterrupted sunshine for the next thousand years with no trace of red clouds.
(Television explodes due to massive lightning strike.)
(Frightening music and huge images of Josef Stalin, Pol Pot, Kim Jong-Il, Arthur Scargill and other murdering socialist bastards intercut with piles of skulls, weeping children, unburied bodies piled up in streets.)
Baroness Thatcher: This is the six o'clock news from the completely impartial Conservative Broadcasting Corporation.
(Brief burst of Hallelujah chorus.)
Thatcher: Ageism and rampant Leninism in the newsrooms abolished forever, says new director-general Sir Frederick Shred; Conservative scientists in Thailand make AIDS vaccine breakthrough; Tories find water on moon; exquisitely-tailored Spandau Ballet pave way for welcome return of yuppie culture.
Lord Tebbit: Good evening, scum. You're watching Conservative Party news, and don't even think about changing channels or you'll regret it. Today's main story: the entire BBC Trust has resigned in disgrace after admitting it was totally wrong to discriminate against newsreaders on the basis of age, sex or barmy right-wing views. To loud cheers from political editor Nick Robinson, the exposed communist cell was driven off to Belmarsh high-security prison to await their trial for treason. Conservative leader David Cameron (Hallelujah chorus) moved swiftly to appoint a new Board of Directors, all of whom have impeccable backgrounds in the banking and asset-stripping sectors.
Talking-head clip. (Caption: New Director-General Sir Frederick Shred)
Shred: I promise to deliver better value by abolishing the licence fee and programme-making, and making the corporation reflect the composition of its audience by showing its entire back catalogue of old football games 24 hours a day, with Bruce Forsyth and St Jeremy Clarkson inviting you to vote for your all-time favourite football match while the adverts are on.
Tebbit: And shortly after that piece was recorded, that sakcastic little trot Paxman was taken outside and shot.
Thatcher: Foreign news - and compassionate, caring Conservative scientists in Thailand have made medical history by injecting monstrous ladyboy abominations with a lethal cocktail of industrial cleaning chemicals until they stopped dying of AIDS. Over to our travel correspondent, William Hague, who chartered a jumbo jet so he could read out this press release from a beach on the other side of the world.
Hague (lying beside an azure-blue sea, with a peasant in a skimpy bikini rubbing suncream into his thighs): Aye, milady, 'appen as Britain's 'ard-workin' captains of industry will be able to spend the fruits o' their labours on a relaxin' 'oliday in Phuket, wi'out vomitin' in 'orror when they gets back to them's 'otel rooms and discover that them two sloe-eyed, slinky bints what them's been plyin' wi' drinks for the last hour 'ave 'orrible 'airy cocks 'idden away in them's bikini bottoms. (to peasant) Er... ta very much 'Sally', lass, that'll be all. Back t'you in t'studio, me inspirational anchor.
Thatcher: Thank you, William. It is hoped that the revolutionary new treatment will soon be extended to filthy shirt-lifting perverts in the UK.
Tebbit: In an exciting breakthrough, a silent majority of right-thinking space probes have discovered traces of water on the moon, leading to hopes that mankind may soon be able to establish a permanent presence on the earth's distant satellite. It turns out that the moon is so abundantly moist that a ton of lunar soil, if compacted to the size of a housebrick, may yield a small jug of water. The Tory Space Agency said it was already drawing up plans for a moonbase, to be permanently manned by the Labour Party.
Thatcher: Finally, it's a welcome return to the glorious 80s as Spandau Ballet dust off their shoulder pads, don their sharp, hand-tailored suits and release their comeback single, "It's OK To Be A Self-Centred, Soul-Crushing Creep". George Osborne, our youth correspondent, reports.
Osborne: Yes, my liege, power-dressing is set to make a welcome return to the worlds of fashion and youth culture - along with rapacious greed, undisguised contempt for the poor and an impervious feeling of supreme smugness. Back to you, mein führer.
Thatcher: Thank you, little man. Happy days are here again. And now here's the Conservative weather, which will be glorious uninterrupted sunshine for the next thousand years with no trace of red clouds.
(Television explodes due to massive lightning strike.)
Thursday, 24 September 2009
'I Am Not Turning Invisible,' Insists Empty Chair
Speaking on US TV channel NBC's Nightly News programme, an apparently empty chair was keen to deny reports that it was becoming invisible.
The empty chair was supposed to have been occupied by prime minister Gordon Brown, who is meant to be attending a UN summit in New York. A doorman at the studios confirmed that he had admitted a British government official who seemed to be engrossed in a conversation with an imaginary friend, even speaking in two different voices; but when shown a photograph of Mr Brown, he recoiled in horror before saying: "No sir, that ain't the guy. I'd remember that sour-faced sonofabitch if I'd seen him."
Earlier, President Obama had failed to see Mr Brown on five separate occasions, even checking under his desk in case the world-renowned statesman and financial genius was playing a game of hide-and-seek.
However, when the upholstered wooden chair in the NBC studios spoke to the floor manager in Gordon Brown's unmistakeable gruff brogue, interviewer Brian Williams shrugged and told editors he was prepared to go ahead with the interview if they were.
Asked why documents emanating from Number Ten were now written in large print with a crayon, Mr Brown's chair curtly replied that there was nothing wrong with the sight in his good eye.
When host Williams bluntly asked if he was going invisible, the chair rocked back and forth violently, shouting: "It's not my fault if certain people seem to be having trouble noticing me!" before falling over. Mr Williams' clipboard suddenly rose into the air of its own accord and flew towards the camera.
Several drunken bums in a back alley later reported a levitating bottle of whisky sobbing incoherently to itself in "some weird kinda Limey accent", before smashing itself to pieces against a wall.
The empty chair was supposed to have been occupied by prime minister Gordon Brown, who is meant to be attending a UN summit in New York. A doorman at the studios confirmed that he had admitted a British government official who seemed to be engrossed in a conversation with an imaginary friend, even speaking in two different voices; but when shown a photograph of Mr Brown, he recoiled in horror before saying: "No sir, that ain't the guy. I'd remember that sour-faced sonofabitch if I'd seen him."
Earlier, President Obama had failed to see Mr Brown on five separate occasions, even checking under his desk in case the world-renowned statesman and financial genius was playing a game of hide-and-seek.
However, when the upholstered wooden chair in the NBC studios spoke to the floor manager in Gordon Brown's unmistakeable gruff brogue, interviewer Brian Williams shrugged and told editors he was prepared to go ahead with the interview if they were.
Asked why documents emanating from Number Ten were now written in large print with a crayon, Mr Brown's chair curtly replied that there was nothing wrong with the sight in his good eye.
When host Williams bluntly asked if he was going invisible, the chair rocked back and forth violently, shouting: "It's not my fault if certain people seem to be having trouble noticing me!" before falling over. Mr Williams' clipboard suddenly rose into the air of its own accord and flew towards the camera.
Several drunken bums in a back alley later reported a levitating bottle of whisky sobbing incoherently to itself in "some weird kinda Limey accent", before smashing itself to pieces against a wall.
Metal Detectorist Saves UK Economy
A man with a metal detector has been offered Alistair Darling's job, after his diligent searching in a field in Staffordshire uncovered a hoard of Anglo-Saxon gold which may stave off Britain's impending bankruptcy for a week or two.
The unprecedented 7th-century hoard, thought to be worth millions of pounds - or maybe even as much as 500 euros - was quickly put in an insured, postage-paid envelope and posted to www.CashMyGold.co.uk, where its scrap value will be assessed and a cheque for a third of the amount sent to the government.
55-year-old Terry Herbert briefly stopped off at 11 Downing Street to collect his shiny Chancellor's badge before setting off with his equipment for the Treasury - where officials are confident that he will detect any pounds which may be hidden in drawers under a pile of paperclips, or have fallen down behind vending machines.
The unprecedented 7th-century hoard, thought to be worth millions of pounds - or maybe even as much as 500 euros - was quickly put in an insured, postage-paid envelope and posted to www.CashMyGold.co.uk, where its scrap value will be assessed and a cheque for a third of the amount sent to the government.
55-year-old Terry Herbert briefly stopped off at 11 Downing Street to collect his shiny Chancellor's badge before setting off with his equipment for the Treasury - where officials are confident that he will detect any pounds which may be hidden in drawers under a pile of paperclips, or have fallen down behind vending machines.
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
Brown Slaps Britain's Enormous Nuclear Cock On The Table
Arriving in New York for a meeting of the UN Security Council, prime minister Gordon Brown raised eyebrows by unashamedly whipping Britain's enormous nuclear cock out and slapping it on the table, shouting: "Look at my enormous nuclear cock, everybody, and tell me if you think it's too big!"
As embarrassed world leaders coughed with embarrassment, Mr Brown confessed that, although he was very much attached to Britain's enormous nuclear cock, he wasn't sure if he could keep it up forever.
"Britain has been proudly waving its enormous nuclear cock around since 1952," he told delegates. "Unfortunately, however, nobody seems to take much notice of it any more. In fact, I think a lot of countries are laughing at it behind my back."
"Some silly old men with beards keep saying it's high time I stopped waving my enormous nuclear cock around and grew up," he explained. "They say there must surely be more important things to occupy my attention. But I love my enormous nuclear cock - it makes me feel like a big boy. Having said that, with all the bloody money that keeps flowing into it, I have to admit I'm starting to feel a bit faint."
Mr Brown refused to stop playing with Britain's enormous nuclear cock altogether, but said he was prepared to consider a slight reduction in size.
"I've heard that it's not how big it is that's important, it's the pleasure it gives," he said. "So I suppose I could settle for a slightly less enormous nuclear cock. Although - unlike my big friend America - I've never had a chance to thrust it deep inside somebody else's country and let it go off, and probably never will, I just couldn't imagine giving up the deep satisfaction of taking it out and waving it around in public from time to time."
"And don't forget my enormous nuclear cock gives a huge sense of pride to millions of people in the UK," he added.
As Mr Brown sat down, obsessively clutching his enormous nuclear cock, more mature statesmen expressed the opinion that perhaps it was time for Britain to address its tragic delusions about importance.
As embarrassed world leaders coughed with embarrassment, Mr Brown confessed that, although he was very much attached to Britain's enormous nuclear cock, he wasn't sure if he could keep it up forever.
"Britain has been proudly waving its enormous nuclear cock around since 1952," he told delegates. "Unfortunately, however, nobody seems to take much notice of it any more. In fact, I think a lot of countries are laughing at it behind my back."
"Some silly old men with beards keep saying it's high time I stopped waving my enormous nuclear cock around and grew up," he explained. "They say there must surely be more important things to occupy my attention. But I love my enormous nuclear cock - it makes me feel like a big boy. Having said that, with all the bloody money that keeps flowing into it, I have to admit I'm starting to feel a bit faint."
Mr Brown refused to stop playing with Britain's enormous nuclear cock altogether, but said he was prepared to consider a slight reduction in size.
"I've heard that it's not how big it is that's important, it's the pleasure it gives," he said. "So I suppose I could settle for a slightly less enormous nuclear cock. Although - unlike my big friend America - I've never had a chance to thrust it deep inside somebody else's country and let it go off, and probably never will, I just couldn't imagine giving up the deep satisfaction of taking it out and waving it around in public from time to time."
"And don't forget my enormous nuclear cock gives a huge sense of pride to millions of people in the UK," he added.
As Mr Brown sat down, obsessively clutching his enormous nuclear cock, more mature statesmen expressed the opinion that perhaps it was time for Britain to address its tragic delusions about importance.
46-Year-Old Boy Cries As Grown-Ups Tidy Up Lego
Little James May, 46, cried uncontrollably and stamped his foot yesterday as adults broke up the two-storey house he had built entirely out of Lego, and put all 3,200,000 pieces back in their box.
Little James, who suffers from Clarksonism, was already sulking because naughty boys from down the road had already stolen his precious Lego cat, Silly Fusker, from his Lego house.
"My Lego house was all colours and stuff and everso everso big a nice man from Legoland said he was going to buy it for a million million pounds and take it away on a big red lorry no really but he couldn't find a million million pound note which is a shame because then I'd of had lots and lots of money for ice cream and crisps and all the Lego in the whole of the world," sobbed little James, who was so upset that he was even refusing to play with his collection of toy cars.
Poor little James' bestest friend Jeremy solemnly told reporters that the Lego house was the most important thing in the history of the world, ever.
"It had a toilet and everything," he explained. "I did a really big poo."
Little James, who suffers from Clarksonism, was already sulking because naughty boys from down the road had already stolen his precious Lego cat, Silly Fusker, from his Lego house.
"My Lego house was all colours and stuff and everso everso big a nice man from Legoland said he was going to buy it for a million million pounds and take it away on a big red lorry no really but he couldn't find a million million pound note which is a shame because then I'd of had lots and lots of money for ice cream and crisps and all the Lego in the whole of the world," sobbed little James, who was so upset that he was even refusing to play with his collection of toy cars.
Poor little James' bestest friend Jeremy solemnly told reporters that the Lego house was the most important thing in the history of the world, ever.
"It had a toilet and everything," he explained. "I did a really big poo."
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
Brown Unsurprisingly Declares Full Support For Lawbreaking Lawmaker
PM Gordon Brown has declared his full support for Baroness Scotland, shortly after the Attorney-General received a £5,000 fine for illegally employing an immigrant who had overstayed her visa to skivvy for her while she was busy drafting more laws for herself to break.
"I have every confidence in Baroness Scotland's unparalelled experience of both sides of the law," shouted the prime minister from the lavatory of a Boeing 767, in which he had locked himself for the duration of the flight to New York - where he has been booked to provide world leaders at the forthcoming G20 summit with some welcome comedy relief by expounding his prudent handling of Britain's economy.
Meanwhile, Baroness Scotland was busy telling UK Border Agency officials that she could not possibly be expected to be familiar with every last petty detail of some piffling, bureaucratic law that she wrote.
"When this wonderfully cheap Tongan domestic servant, whatever her name is, first entered my employment she was perfectly entitled to skivvy legally in the UK on her student visa," protested Britain's top legal officer. "How can I possibly be expected to realise that people don't stay students forever, or that visas expire? What am I - education minister and foreign secretary too? Needless to say, I have subsequently sacked the lawbreaking bitch. Perhaps if I'd thought this whole business through a bit more while I was making it all up off the top of my head, I might have remembered the part about employers having to keep copies of all documents."
"But never mind all that trivial nonsense," she continued, as she gave a can of furniture polish an experimental shake. "The important issue to remember in the midst of all this overblown media furore over a trivial matter like immigration, which really is of no interest whatsoever to the ordinary people on the street, is that I am a government minister and you're not."
"The upside to all this, though, is that - as far as I can see - I don't have to pay that awful woman the back-wages I owe her, as her contract of employment became null and void on the day her visa expired," she added with a smile. "That ought to offset the fine nicely."
Baroness Scotland promised faithfully that in future she would pay more attention to the law as she was writing it.
"Throughout my remaining tenure as Attorney General, I am determined to weave the name of Baroness Scotland inextricably into the statute books of this nation," she vowed. "Where it will immediately be followed by the words 'is exempt'."
"I have every confidence in Baroness Scotland's unparalelled experience of both sides of the law," shouted the prime minister from the lavatory of a Boeing 767, in which he had locked himself for the duration of the flight to New York - where he has been booked to provide world leaders at the forthcoming G20 summit with some welcome comedy relief by expounding his prudent handling of Britain's economy.
Meanwhile, Baroness Scotland was busy telling UK Border Agency officials that she could not possibly be expected to be familiar with every last petty detail of some piffling, bureaucratic law that she wrote.
"When this wonderfully cheap Tongan domestic servant, whatever her name is, first entered my employment she was perfectly entitled to skivvy legally in the UK on her student visa," protested Britain's top legal officer. "How can I possibly be expected to realise that people don't stay students forever, or that visas expire? What am I - education minister and foreign secretary too? Needless to say, I have subsequently sacked the lawbreaking bitch. Perhaps if I'd thought this whole business through a bit more while I was making it all up off the top of my head, I might have remembered the part about employers having to keep copies of all documents."
"But never mind all that trivial nonsense," she continued, as she gave a can of furniture polish an experimental shake. "The important issue to remember in the midst of all this overblown media furore over a trivial matter like immigration, which really is of no interest whatsoever to the ordinary people on the street, is that I am a government minister and you're not."
"The upside to all this, though, is that - as far as I can see - I don't have to pay that awful woman the back-wages I owe her, as her contract of employment became null and void on the day her visa expired," she added with a smile. "That ought to offset the fine nicely."
Baroness Scotland promised faithfully that in future she would pay more attention to the law as she was writing it.
"Throughout my remaining tenure as Attorney General, I am determined to weave the name of Baroness Scotland inextricably into the statute books of this nation," she vowed. "Where it will immediately be followed by the words 'is exempt'."
1,100 British Jobs At Risk At Opel Re-Badging Plants
Britain's premier chavmobile outlet may soon shed 1,100 British jobs, it was claimed today, in the wake of Magna's buyout of a majority shareholding in Opel and its small regional badge-engineering subsidiary, Vauxhall.
"An Opel Astra with a plastic Vauxhall badge on the boot is the conveyance of choice for the discerning chav," said a government spokesman, as talks continued in a last-ditch effort to persuade the Canadian car-parts manufacturer to sack a lot of Germans instead. "But the problem, from a manufacturing point of view, is that the little shits only buy clapped-out old bangers that are at least ten years old. Then they spend the rest of their hard-thieved cash on essential accessories like a big blue light under the floorpan, a satnav to remind them where their latest 14-year-old girlfriend lives, and of course the big rear wing which is so essential to prevent the vehicle from launching itself into orbit as it burns away from traffic lights and pursuing police cars."
"And that was before the bank cancelled all their cards, forcing them to send all their bling off in the post in the forlorn hope of recovering maybe a tenth of what they paid for it," he added.
A spares manufacturer was seen as the perfect partner to take over the running of ailing General Motors' European operations, he explained, as bits were always falling off the chavmobiles due to their owners' habit of clipping kerbs, walls, other vehicles, pedestrians and lamp-posts as they race around urban streets in circles every evening, in an instinctive ritual which - according to anthropologists - may serve to stimulate hormone production in underage females, making them more amenable to a brief, grunting poke on the stained rear seats of their boyfriends' shonky passion-wagons.
"Of course, there will still be work at our Ellesmere Port and Luton plants for the foreseeable future," promised Siegfried Wolf, Magna's co-chief executive. "As your chavscum revert to their natural state of poverty, they will no longer be able to afford our current range of parts. We are already busy gathering up all the unsold new and second-hand right-hand-drive Opels - sorry, Vauxhalls, you're touchy about that aren't you? - from the dealers' showrooms, prior to breaking them down at our former factories, to be sold to your bankrupt chav army as 'fully-reconditioned spares'."
"Of course, this means they will have nothing to buy in ten years' time," he continued. "But by then we'll have long since disappeared over the horizon, and the government of the day will be spending your nation's last remaining pennies on yet another futile, hand-wringing inquiry into whether it was really such an economic master-stroke to sit contentedly on their fat asses and do nothing to stop the final remnants of your once-mighty industrial base from falling in the grasping hands of a bunch of asset-stripping chancers."
"An Opel Astra with a plastic Vauxhall badge on the boot is the conveyance of choice for the discerning chav," said a government spokesman, as talks continued in a last-ditch effort to persuade the Canadian car-parts manufacturer to sack a lot of Germans instead. "But the problem, from a manufacturing point of view, is that the little shits only buy clapped-out old bangers that are at least ten years old. Then they spend the rest of their hard-thieved cash on essential accessories like a big blue light under the floorpan, a satnav to remind them where their latest 14-year-old girlfriend lives, and of course the big rear wing which is so essential to prevent the vehicle from launching itself into orbit as it burns away from traffic lights and pursuing police cars."
"And that was before the bank cancelled all their cards, forcing them to send all their bling off in the post in the forlorn hope of recovering maybe a tenth of what they paid for it," he added.
A spares manufacturer was seen as the perfect partner to take over the running of ailing General Motors' European operations, he explained, as bits were always falling off the chavmobiles due to their owners' habit of clipping kerbs, walls, other vehicles, pedestrians and lamp-posts as they race around urban streets in circles every evening, in an instinctive ritual which - according to anthropologists - may serve to stimulate hormone production in underage females, making them more amenable to a brief, grunting poke on the stained rear seats of their boyfriends' shonky passion-wagons.
"Of course, there will still be work at our Ellesmere Port and Luton plants for the foreseeable future," promised Siegfried Wolf, Magna's co-chief executive. "As your chavscum revert to their natural state of poverty, they will no longer be able to afford our current range of parts. We are already busy gathering up all the unsold new and second-hand right-hand-drive Opels - sorry, Vauxhalls, you're touchy about that aren't you? - from the dealers' showrooms, prior to breaking them down at our former factories, to be sold to your bankrupt chav army as 'fully-reconditioned spares'."
"Of course, this means they will have nothing to buy in ten years' time," he continued. "But by then we'll have long since disappeared over the horizon, and the government of the day will be spending your nation's last remaining pennies on yet another futile, hand-wringing inquiry into whether it was really such an economic master-stroke to sit contentedly on their fat asses and do nothing to stop the final remnants of your once-mighty industrial base from falling in the grasping hands of a bunch of asset-stripping chancers."
Monday, 21 September 2009
Ladder-Hauling Graduate Servant Reliev'd to Hear That CBI Masters Are All Right
A lately-graduated Labourer by the name of Jack told your humble Journal-writer of his great relief at hearing that his rightful owners in the Grand Con-Federation of British Industry were all right, as he did gamely sweat and struggle to comply with their Orders to pull their ladder up.
"I be so lucky, my good Master Neville," he gasp'd hopefully, as he strove to stow his Masters' enormous Gold-plated Ladder. "For I do owe Milords only twenty thowsand Guineas after the finishing of my Degree; so it be possible, God willing, that - even allowing for Deductions for my stabling, oates and veterinary costs - I may, one day, be in such a position as to purchase my Freedom from these huge, crippling Debts afore I be call'd to My Maker's side."
The Great and the Good from the Spheere of Commerce have, this day, impress'd upon Her Majesty's Ministers of Government the need to command vast increases in students' Tuition Fees; and, furthermore, to levy punitive interest rates on their Loanes, in order to pre-vent future generations of Jacks from ever harbouring the veriest scrap of Hope that they may one day gain some measure of Control over their worth-less Lives.
"Why, Sir, we can no longer be said to live in the Renaissance Period - much as it paines me to say it - when a fine young Gentle-man such as Myself could swan off to Oxford free of charge to read History, or what-have-you, at Balliol; after Sojourning at his leisure in Foreign climes for a few agreeably pleasant years on a Grand Tour, so that he may be deem'd financially independent; in order that the Father - God bless him - need not trouble himself to loosen his purse-strings for some burden-some parental contribution to one's Grant," smil'd Director General Mr. Richard Lambert, reclining on a couch as a trembling graduate peel'd him a Grape.
"Indeed; for is it not the case, Sir, that the tiresomely-abundant Tradesman classes of today needs must be made to understand that they are put on God's good Earth solely to serve the likes of Us, and our Dynasties?" huff'd his periwigged deputy Sir John Cridland, CBE; who did also study History, at the taxpayer's expense, at Christes College, Cambridge. "And I will go further, Sir! God curse me for a China-man, should I neglect to Vouch this before all here present: that the best - nay, the only - way in which the Enlightenment of the masses may be Fostered, in regard to the Gravity of this Matter, is to prevent the jumped-up Coxcombs from ever threatening to topple Us from Our divinely-ordained positions at the Pinnacle of Society, by forcing the Curs into financial Servitude for ever, God damn their worth-less hides! Huzzah!"
The good and noble gentle-men did further contend that only the teaching of the most profitable subjects - to whit: Science; Algebra; The Invention of Patent Devices; and The Cacophonous Babble of Pecunious Foreigners - ought, in their consider'd Opinions, to be tolerated within the hallow'd halls of Academe.
"Make no mistake, Sir, I caution you," thunder'd Mr. Lambert, "In this glorious era of Progress, there can be no place for such Worth-less Fripperies as Journal-ism, Studiae Mediorum or History; such as can lead only to the idle chattering of the Teeth and the fogging of the Mind. The Pox, I say, on all such Fools and their Foolish-ness!"
"I be so lucky, my good Master Neville," he gasp'd hopefully, as he strove to stow his Masters' enormous Gold-plated Ladder. "For I do owe Milords only twenty thowsand Guineas after the finishing of my Degree; so it be possible, God willing, that - even allowing for Deductions for my stabling, oates and veterinary costs - I may, one day, be in such a position as to purchase my Freedom from these huge, crippling Debts afore I be call'd to My Maker's side."
The Great and the Good from the Spheere of Commerce have, this day, impress'd upon Her Majesty's Ministers of Government the need to command vast increases in students' Tuition Fees; and, furthermore, to levy punitive interest rates on their Loanes, in order to pre-vent future generations of Jacks from ever harbouring the veriest scrap of Hope that they may one day gain some measure of Control over their worth-less Lives.
"Why, Sir, we can no longer be said to live in the Renaissance Period - much as it paines me to say it - when a fine young Gentle-man such as Myself could swan off to Oxford free of charge to read History, or what-have-you, at Balliol; after Sojourning at his leisure in Foreign climes for a few agreeably pleasant years on a Grand Tour, so that he may be deem'd financially independent; in order that the Father - God bless him - need not trouble himself to loosen his purse-strings for some burden-some parental contribution to one's Grant," smil'd Director General Mr. Richard Lambert, reclining on a couch as a trembling graduate peel'd him a Grape.
"Indeed; for is it not the case, Sir, that the tiresomely-abundant Tradesman classes of today needs must be made to understand that they are put on God's good Earth solely to serve the likes of Us, and our Dynasties?" huff'd his periwigged deputy Sir John Cridland, CBE; who did also study History, at the taxpayer's expense, at Christes College, Cambridge. "And I will go further, Sir! God curse me for a China-man, should I neglect to Vouch this before all here present: that the best - nay, the only - way in which the Enlightenment of the masses may be Fostered, in regard to the Gravity of this Matter, is to prevent the jumped-up Coxcombs from ever threatening to topple Us from Our divinely-ordained positions at the Pinnacle of Society, by forcing the Curs into financial Servitude for ever, God damn their worth-less hides! Huzzah!"
The good and noble gentle-men did further contend that only the teaching of the most profitable subjects - to whit: Science; Algebra; The Invention of Patent Devices; and The Cacophonous Babble of Pecunious Foreigners - ought, in their consider'd Opinions, to be tolerated within the hallow'd halls of Academe.
"Make no mistake, Sir, I caution you," thunder'd Mr. Lambert, "In this glorious era of Progress, there can be no place for such Worth-less Fripperies as Journal-ism, Studiae Mediorum or History; such as can lead only to the idle chattering of the Teeth and the fogging of the Mind. The Pox, I say, on all such Fools and their Foolish-ness!"
Sunday, 20 September 2009
Britain Plunged Into Ratings War
The UN Security Council is to debate an emergency motion in a special session this evening, as the bitter ratings war which has plunged Britain into crisis continues to escalate.
The BBC declared war on ITV last night at 1900 BST, with the populist veteran trouper Bruce Forsyth leading his semi-trained Strictly Scum Prancing cadres into territory occupied by ITV's hated Simon Cowell and his ZZZ Faction.
Although this is only the first skirmish, the BBC's carefully-orchestrated onslaught has already claimed 7.7 million victims, while ITV's peasant army has so far retained control of its heartlands at a human cost of 10m casualties.
The very ordinary people caught up in the midst of the conflict are begging the BBC to rethink its strategy, which has already left millions severely traumatised by the terrible choices forced upon them.
The bitter conflict has reopened the old faultlines which underpin Britain's class-based society. For decades, ITV has been popular with people with absolutely no class at all, while those who think they have a bit of class traditionally leap to the defence of the BBC.
Shocked government and insurgent leaders across Africa and Latin America were swift to issue urgent calls for the UN to send a peace-keeping force to strife-torn Britain.
"Our petty squabbles are nothing, compared to the horrific civil war which has broken out over the airwaves of Great Britain," sobbed President Álvaro Uribe of Colombia, sitting side-by-side with deeply-moved FARC rebel leaders for the first time at an historic press conference in Cartagena.
On hearing the news Mahmoud Abbas, President of the Palestinian National Authority, immediately cancelled preparations for Tuesday's suddenly-unimportant Middle East summit to perform a symbolic dance of solidarity with Israeli Prime Minister Binyamin Netunyahu at a West Bank border checkpoint - both hoping against hope that sanity may yet prevail and bring an uneasy truce to Britain's screens.
Both camps, however, are refusing to concede ground in what promises to be the bloodiest conflict in history since BBC Parliament declared war on Prince Charles I, a very long time before media studies began.
The BBC declared war on ITV last night at 1900 BST, with the populist veteran trouper Bruce Forsyth leading his semi-trained Strictly Scum Prancing cadres into territory occupied by ITV's hated Simon Cowell and his ZZZ Faction.
Although this is only the first skirmish, the BBC's carefully-orchestrated onslaught has already claimed 7.7 million victims, while ITV's peasant army has so far retained control of its heartlands at a human cost of 10m casualties.
The very ordinary people caught up in the midst of the conflict are begging the BBC to rethink its strategy, which has already left millions severely traumatised by the terrible choices forced upon them.
The bitter conflict has reopened the old faultlines which underpin Britain's class-based society. For decades, ITV has been popular with people with absolutely no class at all, while those who think they have a bit of class traditionally leap to the defence of the BBC.
Shocked government and insurgent leaders across Africa and Latin America were swift to issue urgent calls for the UN to send a peace-keeping force to strife-torn Britain.
"Our petty squabbles are nothing, compared to the horrific civil war which has broken out over the airwaves of Great Britain," sobbed President Álvaro Uribe of Colombia, sitting side-by-side with deeply-moved FARC rebel leaders for the first time at an historic press conference in Cartagena.
On hearing the news Mahmoud Abbas, President of the Palestinian National Authority, immediately cancelled preparations for Tuesday's suddenly-unimportant Middle East summit to perform a symbolic dance of solidarity with Israeli Prime Minister Binyamin Netunyahu at a West Bank border checkpoint - both hoping against hope that sanity may yet prevail and bring an uneasy truce to Britain's screens.
Both camps, however, are refusing to concede ground in what promises to be the bloodiest conflict in history since BBC Parliament declared war on Prince Charles I, a very long time before media studies began.
Lib Dem Leader Bravely Welcomes Chance To Send Someone Else To Tackle BNP
Speaking at his party's annual conference in a bus shelter in Bournemouth, Liberal Democrat leader Nick Votes has told both his supporters that he welcomes the chance to challenge the BNP on Question Time, albeit not in person.
"If the BBC ask one of those fascist thugs who have been elected to the European Parliament onto one of their flagship programmes, I want us - by which I mean one of my more expendable colleagues - to be there to take them on," he said, to a standing ovation as the number 37 circular arrived.
Jumping enthusiastically aboard, Mr Votes told the driver that he was regrettably unable to appear on the programme himself, having already promised to be at a barbecue on that particular night, whenever it might be. As he fumbled for the right policy change, he explained that his home affairs spokesman Chris Huhne had been given the honour of challenging the right-wing extremists, while he was out buying everyone chips.
Returning to the empty bus shelter, a bewildered Mr Huhne quickly read the hastily-scribbled briefing document his party leader had left wedged into the bench, turned pale, dropped all the portions and frantically searched the timetable for coach services to Heathrow Airport, before hailing a passing taxi and speeding away.
Political observers say that Mr Huhne's surname may turn out to be an inspired choice for a televised debate with the BNP's Nick Griffin - who will almost certainly spend the entire debate saluting him and obsequiously begging for orders, especially if Mr Huhne turns up in a well-tailored black uniform.
"If the BBC ask one of those fascist thugs who have been elected to the European Parliament onto one of their flagship programmes, I want us - by which I mean one of my more expendable colleagues - to be there to take them on," he said, to a standing ovation as the number 37 circular arrived.
Jumping enthusiastically aboard, Mr Votes told the driver that he was regrettably unable to appear on the programme himself, having already promised to be at a barbecue on that particular night, whenever it might be. As he fumbled for the right policy change, he explained that his home affairs spokesman Chris Huhne had been given the honour of challenging the right-wing extremists, while he was out buying everyone chips.
Returning to the empty bus shelter, a bewildered Mr Huhne quickly read the hastily-scribbled briefing document his party leader had left wedged into the bench, turned pale, dropped all the portions and frantically searched the timetable for coach services to Heathrow Airport, before hailing a passing taxi and speeding away.
Political observers say that Mr Huhne's surname may turn out to be an inspired choice for a televised debate with the BNP's Nick Griffin - who will almost certainly spend the entire debate saluting him and obsequiously begging for orders, especially if Mr Huhne turns up in a well-tailored black uniform.
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