The appalling theft of the notorious 'Arbeit Macht Frei' sign over the gates of the Auschwitz concentration camp - possibly stolen to order for a sick neo-Nazi collector - went unnoticed in England, as people sat huddled around their televisions for warmth and shivered at unceasing reports of yet more trains, roads and airports descending into utter chaos at the first hint of winter.
"I went outside and crapped in my pants at the terrifying sight of a sprinkling of deadly snow on the garden," said banker Rob Blind from his sauna-like bedroom, where he lay huddled under three duvets. "So some ironmongery has been pinched in Poland. I reckon it was probably gypsies. What's so special about this Auschwitz place anyway?"
Saturday 19 December 2009
Polish Workers Ask What All The Fuss Is About
As the native English shivered in their flimsy Primark rags and begged for God to make the bad thing stop, the country's Polish migrants went to work wearing an extra woolly jumper and observed that the streets were unusually free from traffic.
"I wait for bus - bus not arrive, so I run," gasped office temp Jolanta Kaczmarek, standing patiently in three inches of snow. "I here now, but office closed. Is English bank holiday?"
Meanwhile, construction worker Wojciech Czarnecki was busy mixing cement on an otherwise-deserted building site.
"Is slightly chilly, no?" he said as he hauled another sack from his chain-shod van. "Foreman to give big anger when get to site, find others all oversleep. My lovely new cements set soon. Is terrible waste, yes?"
Meanwhile, the native people of the south east were huddling around their roaring fan heaters with the central heating on full blast, shivering in cotton-and-polyester summer clothing and sobbing uncontrollably. Outside, the streets were littered with snowdrifts up to ten centimetres deep, and tits which had been frozen off lay where they fell - to be picked up by teams of Eastern Europeans, who said they would send them home to their wives, sisters and daughters.
"My sister in Budapest very sad, say she never afford expensive plastic surgeries," explained László Borbély, stuffing a fine pair of abandoned breasts into a carrier bag. "These magnificent English charlies make for her very nice Christmas present."
"I wait for bus - bus not arrive, so I run," gasped office temp Jolanta Kaczmarek, standing patiently in three inches of snow. "I here now, but office closed. Is English bank holiday?"
Meanwhile, construction worker Wojciech Czarnecki was busy mixing cement on an otherwise-deserted building site.
"Is slightly chilly, no?" he said as he hauled another sack from his chain-shod van. "Foreman to give big anger when get to site, find others all oversleep. My lovely new cements set soon. Is terrible waste, yes?"
Meanwhile, the native people of the south east were huddling around their roaring fan heaters with the central heating on full blast, shivering in cotton-and-polyester summer clothing and sobbing uncontrollably. Outside, the streets were littered with snowdrifts up to ten centimetres deep, and tits which had been frozen off lay where they fell - to be picked up by teams of Eastern Europeans, who said they would send them home to their wives, sisters and daughters.
"My sister in Budapest very sad, say she never afford expensive plastic surgeries," explained László Borbély, stuffing a fine pair of abandoned breasts into a carrier bag. "These magnificent English charlies make for her very nice Christmas present."
Friday 18 December 2009
Entire Nation Tunes In To Hear Live Abdication Broadcast
The United Kingdom is in constitutional disarray today, after the abdication of King Wogan I this morning created a vacuum at the heart of the broadcasting system which has left millions questioning the very future of radio in the modern era.
King Wogan has ruled the airwaves ever since the day Marconi sent his first crackling message, and people today simply cannot imagine burning toast or sitting in a traffic jam without his reassuring presence to ease them gently into another tedious day of pointless, devaluing toil for some other bastard's benefit.
During the formal abdication ceremony this morning, prime minister Gordon Brown solemnly broke off from single-handedly saving the world in Copenhagen to express his deep appreciation of the manner in which King Wogan has selflessly carried out his ceremonial duties day after day for over a hundred years.
"I listen to Tony Wigan on the TV every morning as I spoon gruel into my mouth," he reassured the grieving nation. "His self-effacing witty banter always fills me with mirth NB for fuck's sake make an effort to sound cheerful Gordon don't read this bit out obviously A.C."
At the end of the emotional ritual, King Wogan ceremonially handed over to Ken Bruce - who immediately sought to convince a doubt-filled Britain that, one day, history might conceivably judge irritating has-been oddball Prince Chris Evans to be a worthy heir to the BBC crown.
Diehard traditionalists, however, are pinning their hopes on the miraculous return of King Wogan in Britain's direst hour of need, possibly some time in February when he has finished counting all the money he has made from the BBC for hosting Children In Need and the weak, unpopular King Evans has divided the listening nation into warring tribal factions.
King Wogan has ruled the airwaves ever since the day Marconi sent his first crackling message, and people today simply cannot imagine burning toast or sitting in a traffic jam without his reassuring presence to ease them gently into another tedious day of pointless, devaluing toil for some other bastard's benefit.
During the formal abdication ceremony this morning, prime minister Gordon Brown solemnly broke off from single-handedly saving the world in Copenhagen to express his deep appreciation of the manner in which King Wogan has selflessly carried out his ceremonial duties day after day for over a hundred years.
"I listen to Tony Wigan on the TV every morning as I spoon gruel into my mouth," he reassured the grieving nation. "His self-effacing witty banter always fills me with mirth NB for fuck's sake make an effort to sound cheerful Gordon don't read this bit out obviously A.C."
At the end of the emotional ritual, King Wogan ceremonially handed over to Ken Bruce - who immediately sought to convince a doubt-filled Britain that, one day, history might conceivably judge irritating has-been oddball Prince Chris Evans to be a worthy heir to the BBC crown.
Diehard traditionalists, however, are pinning their hopes on the miraculous return of King Wogan in Britain's direst hour of need, possibly some time in February when he has finished counting all the money he has made from the BBC for hosting Children In Need and the weak, unpopular King Evans has divided the listening nation into warring tribal factions.
Snow Proving Terribly Inconvenient To Media Types Again
Less than a year after snowfalls brought tragic inconvenience to journalists across the trendier parts of London, the entire south east has once again been buried under a numbing blizzard of non-stories explaining at some length and in considerable detail how terrifying it can be to see one's Jimmy Choos ruined as they sink into a couple of inches of grey slush while closing the garage door.
Newsrooms across the bit of the nation which matters were soon thick with unfolding stories of individual heroism.
"Thank God for me and others like me who bravely ignored Guardian readers' complaints about our 4x4s," said Daily Politics host Andrew Neill as he strode into Television Centre this morning. "I just saved Andrew Marr from freezing to death in his wanky Peugeot convertible, the jug-eared little twerp."
The flurry of self-absorbed doomsaying is expected to continue well into the weekend, easing off gradually by Monday as journalists begin to notice that the world has not actually fallen apart after all. The rest of the week will see the nation blanketed in ill-informed fog about global warming fed by a stormy front emanating from frosty, damp Copenhagen, which has been deeply unsettling for several days now.
Newsrooms across the bit of the nation which matters were soon thick with unfolding stories of individual heroism.
"Thank God for me and others like me who bravely ignored Guardian readers' complaints about our 4x4s," said Daily Politics host Andrew Neill as he strode into Television Centre this morning. "I just saved Andrew Marr from freezing to death in his wanky Peugeot convertible, the jug-eared little twerp."
The flurry of self-absorbed doomsaying is expected to continue well into the weekend, easing off gradually by Monday as journalists begin to notice that the world has not actually fallen apart after all. The rest of the week will see the nation blanketed in ill-informed fog about global warming fed by a stormy front emanating from frosty, damp Copenhagen, which has been deeply unsettling for several days now.
Thursday 17 December 2009
Chief Medical Officer Breaks Link Between That Nice Cabernet Sauvignon You Like With Your Dinner and End of Civilisation
Britain's social problems were solved at a stroke today by the outgoing Chief Killjoy, Sir Liam Donaldson.
Britain's top stroppy doctor delivered a devastating diatribe against irresponsible parents who recklessly allow their children to cotton on to the fact that there exists a mysterious substance called alcohol, which may actually be quite pleasant if drunk in moderate quantities.
"Children who find out about this vile chemical abomination invariably grow up into the kind of tragic sub-human wreckage for whom home is a urine-soaked bench in the bus station," hectored Sir Liam in all the proper newspapers which nice people like us read. "And I'm not talking about the council estate rat-people, Middle England - their foul whelps are already hooked on the pure crystal meth that flows from their prostitute mothers' needle-pocked breasts. I'm talking about you - you there, the chap reading this on the 0810 to Charing Cross - yes, you! You disgust me with your corrupt Stowells of Chelsea wine collection and your perverted bottle of single-malt Scotch. The mere presence of this unpardonable toxic waste in your household has condemned your carefully-conceived offspring to a short, wasted life shambling in and out of the prison system. Proud of yourself? God, you make me sick. I want to hurt you badly."
Meanwhile, readers of the Sun and the Mirror were anxiously dragging their fingers along a version of Sir Liam's advice specially tailored for what little remains of their pickled brains.
"You will raise a tribe of uncontrollable little SHITS who will certainly turn round and HACK you to BITS over some silly bloody toy, BECAUSE YOU DRINK," he wrote in big letters. "And you WILL have kids, because you're too sodding THICK to use a CONDOM. The only way to save your wretched life once you start dropping sprogs is this: STOP DRINKING until the ungrateful little buggers eventually fuck off."
Within 12 hours of Sir Liam's sour prognosis, Britain's teen pregnancy rate is reported to have plummeted from 95% to zero. The country's chavscum are said to be signing up in droves to be neutered or spayed by specially-deployed teams of vets, while decent middle-class people like you and me are hastily adding bleach, paraquat and creosote to the contents of our wine cellars and administering the deadly cocktail to the family pet in a desperate collective effort to convince our sons and daughters that alcohol is not, as they had previously been led to believe, rather agreeable with a Sunday roast, but in fact agonisingly fatal even in the tiniest doses.
Traumatised Joshuas and Emilys are now confidently expected to live for at least 150 enjoyment-free years. Meanwhile, the dwindling numbers of Cody-Lees and Sammi-Jos will soon be rounded up by the authorities and placed in an underwater holding tank somewhere off the coast of Cornwall, until their stunted Morlok race mercifully dies out for good.
"I can retire with a clear conscience," said Sir Liam this evening. "My work here is done."
"Unless I can think of some way to cure the nation of sugar, " he added. "And television. And comfortable furniture."
Britain's top stroppy doctor delivered a devastating diatribe against irresponsible parents who recklessly allow their children to cotton on to the fact that there exists a mysterious substance called alcohol, which may actually be quite pleasant if drunk in moderate quantities.
"Children who find out about this vile chemical abomination invariably grow up into the kind of tragic sub-human wreckage for whom home is a urine-soaked bench in the bus station," hectored Sir Liam in all the proper newspapers which nice people like us read. "And I'm not talking about the council estate rat-people, Middle England - their foul whelps are already hooked on the pure crystal meth that flows from their prostitute mothers' needle-pocked breasts. I'm talking about you - you there, the chap reading this on the 0810 to Charing Cross - yes, you! You disgust me with your corrupt Stowells of Chelsea wine collection and your perverted bottle of single-malt Scotch. The mere presence of this unpardonable toxic waste in your household has condemned your carefully-conceived offspring to a short, wasted life shambling in and out of the prison system. Proud of yourself? God, you make me sick. I want to hurt you badly."
Meanwhile, readers of the Sun and the Mirror were anxiously dragging their fingers along a version of Sir Liam's advice specially tailored for what little remains of their pickled brains.
"You will raise a tribe of uncontrollable little SHITS who will certainly turn round and HACK you to BITS over some silly bloody toy, BECAUSE YOU DRINK," he wrote in big letters. "And you WILL have kids, because you're too sodding THICK to use a CONDOM. The only way to save your wretched life once you start dropping sprogs is this: STOP DRINKING until the ungrateful little buggers eventually fuck off."
Within 12 hours of Sir Liam's sour prognosis, Britain's teen pregnancy rate is reported to have plummeted from 95% to zero. The country's chavscum are said to be signing up in droves to be neutered or spayed by specially-deployed teams of vets, while decent middle-class people like you and me are hastily adding bleach, paraquat and creosote to the contents of our wine cellars and administering the deadly cocktail to the family pet in a desperate collective effort to convince our sons and daughters that alcohol is not, as they had previously been led to believe, rather agreeable with a Sunday roast, but in fact agonisingly fatal even in the tiniest doses.
Traumatised Joshuas and Emilys are now confidently expected to live for at least 150 enjoyment-free years. Meanwhile, the dwindling numbers of Cody-Lees and Sammi-Jos will soon be rounded up by the authorities and placed in an underwater holding tank somewhere off the coast of Cornwall, until their stunted Morlok race mercifully dies out for good.
"I can retire with a clear conscience," said Sir Liam this evening. "My work here is done."
"Unless I can think of some way to cure the nation of sugar, " he added. "And television. And comfortable furniture."
Monday 14 December 2009
Italy Returns To Dark Days of Political Violence, But On A Small Scale
Tensions are running high in Italy, one day after prime minister Silvio Berlusconi was assaulted with a plaster miniature of Milan Cathedral, as all sides rush to arm themselves with a variety of authentically-detailed models.
Opposition parties are said to have stockpiles of die-cast cars and poseable action figures at the ready, while Italy's armed forces are frantically assembling Airfix kits of tanks, fighter-bombers and warships to defend the state against anarchy. Meanwhile, the Pope has appealed for calm, offering to withdraw all stocks of plaster cathedrals and saints until peace is restored.
Mr Berlusconi - who is no stranger to receiving stunning blows from beautifully-proportioned models - remains in hospital under observation, with a broken nose, two smashed teeth, a severely bruised ego, and a massive dent in his pride.
"We are fighting a losing battle to save Mr Berlusconi's lost face," admitted a haggard newsreader from one of the six major TV networks owned or controlled by the media mogul-turned-politician.
Milanese police sources say that the assailant, Massimo Tartaglia, has a ten-year history of mental illness which - according to a spokesman, Ispettore Superiore Selvaggio - may shortly be coming to an end, although they will not know for sure until he has been scraped off the walls of his cell.
As the world took stock of the latest development in Italian politics, British PM Gordon Brown was the first leader to offer Mr Berlusconi his support.
"I urge Mr Berlusconi and all Western heads of state to join me in my war on the mentally ill, which I declared a year ago by scrapping Incapacity Benefit," he told reporters this morning.
Meanwhile, back in Italy, many fear a return to the political violence which blighted the Southern European nation for decades - even if it is on a small scale, like 1/72nd or N gauge.
"I will dread hearing the terrible crack of a firework, and opening my door to see a scene of finely-detailed carnage on my doorstep, with a shattered Scalextric car surrounded by the dismembered limbs of Action Man, Rorschach from Watchmen or Barbie and Ken," squealed hysterical Milanese resident Giuseppe Pasquale this afternoon. "I am ready to flee at a moment's notice - thanks to this agile, robust little radio-controlled dune buggy I bought this morning."
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