Chancellor’s Crackdown On Imaginary Manor-Dwelling Dolescum Gives Paul Dacre Continuous Orgasm

Long-suffering hacks at the Daily Mail are struggling to write tomorrow’s articles on the effect of the budget on house prices in Surrey, against a piercing background of multiple screaming orgasms emanating from editor Paul Dacre’s office.

“I was just writing a thoughtful item calling for the instant repeal of Comrade Blair’s socialist foxhunting ban to pave the way for suburbia-based hunts, when I heard a sudden yelp of pure joy from the editor’s office,” said Richard Littlejohn. “It seemed to coincide with George Osborne’s long-overdue announcement of a £400-a-week cap on housing benefit.”

According to shocked editorial staff, the next few seconds were punctuated by strange, guttural grunts from Mr Dacre’s office, swiftly followed by shrieks of pure ecstasy – which have continued ever since.

“Of course we’d all like to see the grins wiped off the faces of the feckless generational parasites of Liverpool, when they’re unceremoniously turfed out on the streets in front of their glittering palaces and mansions,” grumbled Peter Hitchens, “But how can I invent a plausible explanation of how paying Atos Medical a small fortune to confirm that paraplegics have mobility issues is going to reduce the Disability Living Allowance budget with that wretched noise piercing my brain? Make no mistake. I’ll be raising this at the next meeting of the NUJ chapter.”

“Ugh, it’s seeping out under the door,” wailed Melanie Philips. “I can’t work under these conditions. If Lord Rothermere wants me to finish this piece on how the abolition of the Sure Start and Health In Pregnancy payments is just what we need to bring an end to the plague of pre-teen pregnancies, he’d jolly well better get down here and whisk his self-polluting monkey off to his Scottish estate or his French château, where his staff of peasants can clean up the mess. I’m not having my Manolo Blahniks ruined by a sticky carpet.”

Emergency services were called to the Daily Mail headquarters at 6pm, when Mr Dacre’s orgasmic cries began to take on a gurgling tone.

“Judging from the tide level on the office door, I’d say Mr Dacre’s got a couple of hours before it reaches the ceiling,” explained a fire chief in waders later. “That should give me enough time to hammer out a draft op-ed piece suggesting that perhaps not all public employees are bone-idle, penpushing jobsworths who richly deserve to have their pay and pensions cut to the bone. When it’s finished and laminated, my lads will be ready with the breathing apparatus and chemical hazard suits to go in and ask him to sign it before they fit him with a stopcock.”