Daily Mail Uncovers Unspeakable European Mouse Organ Plot

Public-spirited reporters at the Daily Mail have uncovered, hidden away deep in their imaginations, an unspeakable European plot to beat innocent laboratory animals to death with heavy mallets, just to see if their dying squeaks can be arranged to the tune of ‘The Bells of St. Mary’s’.

Hitler's EU gauleiters will force you to do this. Yes they will

“Make no mistake,” thundered the typically restrained article. “Sick European lawmakers will force blunt instruments into the hands of you and your children, and order you and your sobbing loved ones to thump poor, defenceless white mice’s guts out for their twisted amusement.”

“While you are reluctantly pulping cute little mice, sadistic Canadian fishermen will be swiping larger animals’ heads clean off with nail-encrusted baseball bats,” it went on.

Twirling his evil moustache and jibber-jabbering away nineteen to the dozen in some foreign lingo, an evil Eurocrat of the Fourth Reich told the doughty British people, through a Mail interpreter: “Oui, señor, I am – ‘ow you say - a sausage-eating greasy spick wop froggie dago Nazi, and I live only to dream up new ways to enrage you, you motherless pig-dog heretic Englanders.”

Meanwhile, thousands of abattoir workers were left wondering why their spoilsport bosses have, for many years, interpreted the actual phrase used - “a percussive blow to the head” - to mean a machine which fires bolts into the brains of livestock, cruelly denying them the traditional countryside pleasure of beating a cow to death with a scaffolding pole.

Manchester Police Forced To Do Some Proper Detective Work

Greater Manchester Police are today faced with the daunting task of having to remember how to properly investigate a crime, after the Crown Prosecution Service sensationally dropped all charges against Rebecca Leighton, the hapless Stockport nurse whose fingerprints were on one of Stepping Hill Hospital’s deadly contaminated saline drips simply because she had been doing her job.

“At the time that Rebecca was charged there was sufficient evidence in our view, never mind what some lefty facking poofter of a lawyer reckons,” insisted Assistant Chief Constable Sweeney Todd. “Look - she give a drip to a patient, and the patient gone and died. Open-and-shut case, innit?”

Course she done it, them's murderer's eyes

While patient CPS lawyers repeatedly tried to make Manchester’s finest grasp the difficult concept of establishing motive – rather than just opportunity – in order to obtain a conviction, the force was faced with the daunting prospect of having to rely solely on their powers of deduction to figure out which of about 500 people who might have had access to the saline drips actually carried out the contamination which led to seven deaths.

Despite the coldness of the trail after a month wasted barking up the wrong tree, sharp-minded detectives have already set to work on putting their cleverly-worded questions to hospital staff – such as: “Can you fink of a reason why that Leighton slag might of done it?”

Cameron Vows To Make ‘Tough Love’ Like A Sex Machine

Prime minister David Cameron promised today that he would soon be making “tough love” all night long to the urban poor of Britain’s deprived inner cities, leading mystified political commentators to trawl the internet for any kind of insight into what on earth he might be talking about.

Mr Cameron's vision for the inner cities

The only explanation anyone has so far come up with involves bondage, domination and sado-masochism - which, experts believe, could well involve tying the jobless up in various agonising postures, attaching clamps to their nipples and other eye-watering tortures. This would only be carried out with the victims’ consent, however, which would be renewed every fortnight as part of their Jobseeker’s Agreement, and would be halted at any time with the uttering of pre-agreed ‘safe words’ – probably along the lines of “I would like to end my claim.”

Such speculation was reinforced later when deputy prime minister Nick Clegg was seen being bundled into the back of a car round the back of 10 Downing Street, trussed up like a Christmas turkey and sporting a ball gag.

UN To Debate No-Fly Zone Over Basildon

Hold on tight now, girls and boys

As evil British dictator Colonel Gadavey’s minions on the People’s Reactionary Council of Basildon gear up in readiness for an all-out assault on Dale Farm, a ramshackle camp full of ethnic pikeys, the United Nations’ Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination called on the UN Security Council to implement a no-fly zone over Basildon as a matter of the utmost urgency.

“In the last few days, Colonel Gadavey’s propaganda machine has been pumping out explicitly anti-pikey tales of fairground atrocities, turning the population against this victimised ethnic minority,” warned the committee. “The pikey community of the United Kingdom has been discriminated against for centuries. The lowly job opportunities allowed to them are restricted to the running of rickety amusement-park rides and offering disdainful shoppers the choice of a worthless sprig of heather or an unspoken curse.”

“The world cannot, and must not, look away and let this injustice happen,” concluded the report. “Basildon Council’s offensive capability must be neutralised, if necessary by a punitive airstrike against its car pool.”

President Nicolas Sarkozy has already indicated that the French people would be more than happy to commit their fighter-bombers and assault helicopters to supporting Britain’s pikey minority, as long as they promised to stay there and keep the fuck out of France.

Biggles Test-Flies The Revolutionary New P45

“I say, Biggles, is that the new crate you’ll be putting through its paces?” spluttered Algernon ‘Algy’ Lacey, as he and the sterling Squadron Leader James Bigglesworth strode into a hangar marked ‘TOP SECRET’. “Crikey, it looks as sleek as a bally paper dart!”

“Why, the P45 is a paper dart, Algy, old bean!” chuckled Biggles as Smyth, his trusty mechanic, strapped him in securely. “Chocks away! Let’s see what this old bus can do!”

Biggles, we salute you. Now get a bloody job, you layabout

With a deafening rustle, the P45 roared into the blue yonder, carrying its fearless pilot into the unknown. Pressed down by invisible forces, however, Biggles soon became a helpless passenger in the deadly paper machine as it sped him far away from the comfort and security of the Officers’ Mess.

“Hello?” he bellowed into the R/T. “This is Squadron Leader Bigglesworth. Mayday! What do I do?”

“Press 1 if you are making a new claim,” advised a soothing voice, and with a superhuman effort, the airborne adventurer complied. After several stirring minutes of the Dambusters March (during which Biggles saluted heroically) a DSS radio operator finally picked up the distress call, and asked for his name, rank and National Insurance number.

“That’s all you’ll get out of me, you devil!” snapped the war veteran defiantly.

“I’m sorry, sir, but unless you’re prepared to co-operate fully and answer every question I shall have to terminate this call,” came the dreaded reply…

An hour later, Algy’s faithful scanning of the skies was rewarded as the battered P45 suddenly staggered out of a low cloud, and slithered sickeningly along the runway. Dashing over to the crumpled wreckage, Algy swiftly dragged a stunned Biggles from the cockpit to safety.

“I say, Biggles old chap, what happened?” he urged. “Are you hurt?”

“Hurt?” gasped the plucky hero, as he struggled out of his flying suit. “I’m blooming mortified! I – I’m a civilian, dammit!”

“Crumbs! But the boffins have just delivered another P45! And they say more are on the way!”

“I’m afraid you’ll just have to take it up yourself, Algy, old sprout! I rather fear I’m hors de combat for good this time. Now help me up, there’s a good chap. I have to report to B&Q branch immediately – there’s a bit of a part-time job on, it seems, and I have to get there before 7,000 other applicants!”

Plymouth Asks If It Can Be Royal, Too

Hard on the heels of the announcement that the people of Wootton Bassett, through their diligent acts of standing around as 345 military hearses drove past, are to have their town granted ‘Royal’ status, the blitzed city of Plymouth has written to the Queen to ask if it could be given a grandiose title as well.

Does this count for anything?

“During the Second World War we stood and watched respectfully as 1,172 of our own dead were laid to rest in mass graves in Efford Cemetery,” said an aggrieved Plymouth. “And - unlike the troops who have died in Afghanistan and Iraq - none of our civilians cheerfully volunteered to sign up and get paid to stand in the line of fire. What's more - unlike picture-postcard Wootton Bassett - we and future generations also have to live with the monstrous aberrations of architecture that were foisted upon us afterwards to replace the shattered Victorian elegance of our blitz-blighted city. Can we have a meaningless addition to our name too, please? ‘Imperial Plymouth’ has a nice ring to it.”

London’s East End, Coventry and dozens of other blitzed cities which didn’t ask to be put in the front line of a war are also believed to have lodged formal requests with Buckingham Palace for pointless additions to their names.

Hurricane Irene Vanishes Off Map As Swiftly As It Appeared

The devastating hurricane which has left the entire eastern seaboard of the United States submerged under thirty fathoms of water has suddenly ceased to exist, having now crossed into the fictional realm of Canada.

Hurricane Irene’s abrupt disappearance from the face of the earth is as rapid as its mysterious appearance out of nowhere - or the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico, as they are also known to a handful of cartographers.

Vermont

As a pitiable handful of American survivors doggedly dived down to their sunken cities, searching desperately for a hardware store with portable generators in stock, the people of Haiti – which is still largely in ruins three years after being blasted by four hurricanes of such force that they made global headlines, even though they only devastated a third-world backwater whose people are only black – generously dug deep in their pockets to send emergency supplies of chilled Budweiser to the underwater state of Vermont.

“My heart goes out to the suffering white folks on America’s east coast,” said mango farmer Jean-Baptiste Veilleux, who is still searching for the remains of his family. “I am glad to donate a month’s income to alleviate their unimaginable suffering. I only hope that $30 will be enough to satisfy an American family’s urgent need for refreshing, ice-cold beers.”

Boris Delighted With 245 Peaceful Arrests And A Peaceful Stabbing

The carnival is all about merry dances, like this one

London mayor Boris Johnson has praised the city and its denizens for showing the world the law-abiding, fun-loving side of the capital, as this year’s legendary Notting Hill Carnival ended with just 245 entirely peaceful arrests and only one non-fatal friendly stabbing.

“Cripes, I say, well done chaps!” spluttered Boris, tragically sporting a sequin-covered mankini. “The vibrant street-dancing of London’s dusky chaps and chapesses has completely restored the world’s confidence in our city as a veritable haven of peace and tranquility, as the 6,500 police officers who attended will readily confirm.”

“This sends out a clear message to the rioting yahoos of Tottenham, Croydon and what-have-you,” he declared proudly. “Namely - er - that if you’re planning to openly flout the law of the land, just make sure your ladyfriends are distracting the press johnnies by prancing down a nearby street with hardly any kit on.”

“Er – crikey - hold on a tick – er… whoops,” he added.

You Wogs Have A Damned Funny Sense Of Priorities, Moans Hague

Tripoli, as it appears to Mr Hague

Foreign secretary William Hague has given Libyan rebel leaders a piece of his mind today, after they obtusely decided that averting a humanitarian disaster among their own people was in some way more important than dragging a comatose cancer victim off his deathbed to spend his last dying days lying unconscious in a Scottish prison.

“No, no, no, you stupid bloody wogs, we don’t want to see pictures of him! We want him in person, dead or alive!” Mr Hague yelled down the phone at the National Transition Council. “Look, if you’re too bone idle to go and fetch the bugger yourselves, just tell us which mud hut he’s hiding in and we’ll send big metal birds over to drop fire eggs on his house, damn you.”

Mr Hague also vented his righteous fury over the ungrateful rebels’ bloody-minded refusal to put the restoration of essential services to Tripoli on hold and to stop searching for 50,000 missing citizens, and urged them to get cracking instead on the more pressing business of handing over a miscreant who, he insists, he has it on good authority - i.e. from a wily old gentleman with his ear to the grapevine - could quite possibly have shot WPC Yvonne Fletcher from inside the Libyan embassy in London 27 years ago.

“Oh, for God’s sake just drop whatever time-wasting arab nonsense you’re up to, you silly camel-fancying layabouts, and just do as you’re bloody told or you'll get my boot up your backsides,” he shouted. “Surely even your dozy eyetie masters taught you to respect white man’s justice?”

“And before you ask: no, I won’t trade either of them for my sister,” he snapped angrily.

Why You Don’t Want Human Rights (© All Newspapers)

Hands up if you want the Human Rights Act repealed

1. They are unspeakably foreign.

2. You, dear reader, are as pure as the driven snow and have never, ever broken the law and would never dream of doing so - not even if it was a silly, petty law you didn’t even know about, like ripping CDs you’ve paid for to your MP3 player or swearing at a cold-calling telesales monkey.

3. Each and every British police officer is cloned from the combined DNA of Miss Marple and Jeeves, and is therefore utterly infallible and absolutely beyond reproach.

4. Nick Clegg likes them.

5. Why shouldn’t our impeccably moral newspapers poke their cameras and microphones anywhere they damn well please, including your voicemail? After all, you’ve got nothing to hide.

US Construction Industry Still Not Entirely Clear On Concept Of Bricks And Mortar

As Hurricane Irene threatens to smash millions of flimsy wooden houses to matchwood and scatter the wreckage and its hapless occupants all over the east coast of America, the rest of the western world is desperately trying to understand why anyone in their right mind who lives in a corner of the globe noted for its extreme weather conditions would willingly choose to live in an overgrown shed in the first place.

“This is a brick, which is a reassuringly solid block made of baked clay,” explained a horrified British builder. “You stack them up on top of one another, offset by 50%, and put a layer of mortar in the middle – that’s a sort of quick-drying paste made of pulverised stone. When you’ve built up a rectangle of sufficient height, you top it off with a roof made of tiles, which are also made of stone. People can live in it for a couple of hundred years, despite pretty much anything the weather might throw at it. It’s been working pretty well over here for about eight centuries. You might want to give it a go.”

A typical American residential street

“Another thing you might want to bear in mind the next time the temperature drops to minus 20 is that bricks have pretty impressive insulating properties,” he added, “Planks, on the other hand, do not.”

Cowering Americans, however, stubbornly continue to believe that a flimsy assembly of timber easily recognisable to any time-warping refugee from the Dark Ages is the acme of a perfect dream home, even when it is hurtling through the sky at 90mph.

“The flight characteristics of wood are well-documented and epitomised by Britain’s legendary Mosquito fighter-bomber,” said Britain’s brick champion. “On the other hand, there’s a pretty obvious reason why no pilot ever took to the skies in The Bricky Wonder.”