Philanthropic Pakistanis Try To Remind Apathetic British Public How To Protest

Why not try this at home?

A public-spirited group of citizens in Pakistan has bravely attempted to deliver a basic lesson in civic rights to the apathetic British populace, by burning an effigy of David Cameron in the streets of Karachi.

“We apologise to the people of Great Britain for our presumption,” said spokesman Mohammad Yousuf Munir of the Shabab-e-Milli group, “After all, he’s your problem first and foremost. But you could make your feelings known, you know, if you only got up off your backsides and made the effort.”

“Here in Pakistan we simply can’t fathom why you sit idly by and let this patronising creep tear apart your health system, sack you in droves, throw the remnants of your steel industry to the wolves, take a hatchet to your public services, hike prices with a 2½% VAT increase, launch a vicious attack on your economic victims, your sick and your disabled and shatter your cherished dreams of retirement, yet casually allow the robbers who bankrupted your country to wriggle off the hook and commit you all to spending what you can’t afford on pointless nuclear weapons for the next 20 years,” explained Mr Munir. “I mean, all he’s done to upset us is to make some mild observations on our government’s relaxed attitude to radical Islamic fundamentalists like us.”

“Compared to what you’re going through it was hardly worth getting out of bed for, really,” he added, “But we felt you deserved to see how it’s done, as it seems to have somehow slipped your minds completely.”

Home Office Facing Calls For Decriminalisation Of Attempting To Murder Bad People

Concerned Daily Mail readers expressing their idea of justice

There are mounting demands today for the removal of penalties for attempted murder, as long as the victim isn’t a very nice person, after bad man Ian Huntley tried to claim compensation for the prison service’s duty-of-care failure to prevent a fellow inmate from slashing his throat.

“Ian Huntley is a cunt. Nobody likes ‘im,” said Norman Brennan, the founder of the Nice Victims of Crime Trust, echoing the voice of the people. “So it’s perfectly acceptable, in my book, for one bad ‘un to be wanderin’ round a maximum security nick with a razor in ‘is hand till he bumps into some even naughtier fucker, then do ‘is level best to rip the bastard’s throat out. Where’s the ‘arm in that, eh?”

“Know what? If I ‘ad my way, I’d give guns to all the wrong ‘uns in Britain and just let the fuckers take each other out, like what they do in them Mexican border towns,” raged the retired police officer. “That’s my idea of law and order.”

“It would all work just fine if their bloody government didn’t keep poking their nose in from time to time,” he added. “Bags full of coppers’ heads litterin’ the place – now that ain’t so nice. But that don’t mean the idea ain’t sound.”

Duncan Smith To Replace Welfare System With Beatings

Still in his dressing gown, work and pensions secretary Iain Duncan Smith called an urgent press conference at 7 o’clock this morning to explain the idea that was fixed in his head when he woke up.

“Listen, because this is completely brilliant,” he exclaimed to yawning journalists. “There’s all this money we pay to people who don’t do anything. And I woke up thinking, ‘Why don’t we just stop doing it?’ There you are. Brilliant.”

After eventually shushing the cheering Daily Mail reporter, astonished correspondents asked the minister what he proposed in place of benefits.

That's the way to do it

“What? Oh, I don’t know,” replied Mr Duncan Smith. “I had the answer when I woke up – but, wouldn’t you know it, I’m damned if I can think of it it now. It might have been a special place where they have to go to be beaten with a stick by a policeman. Or was it allowing anyone with a job to clout them with whatever comes to hand? I’m sure beatings were in there somewhere.”

When asked if he was seriously proposing clubbing the disabled as they starved to death in the gutter, Mr Duncan Smith frowned and mused, “Hmm, that Clegg fellow might draw the line at that.”

“Perhaps we can defer the cripple-beating until after they’ve starved,” he conceded, before going back to bed to work out the details.

George Bernard Shaw Forced Six Litres Of White Lightning Down My Throat, Slurs Actor

Not very luvverly at all

The distinguished star of screen and stage, Rupert Everett, was found sleeping in a West End wheelie bin this morning, surrounded by empty White Lightning bottles, dozens of fag butts and the regurgitated remains of a stale pasty.

The inebriated actor was discovered when a takeaway worker accidentally disturbed his nap by emptying a bucket of peelings into the bin.

After a brilliant improvisation featuring many interesting words from the days of Shakespeare, Mr Everett struggled out of his impromptu bedchamber and promptly blamed long-dead playwright George Bernard Shaw for his heightened emotional state.

“I’m Per-prufessioner Higgins from My Fair Lady, see?” he explained to PC Savage, a passing policeman. “Hang on, thass not right… Iss about a pygmy lion or summing - I dunno, iss fulla words an’ things… ‘s really hard to remember id all. I’m und’ a lodda strain. S’really hard t’remember all those words, an’ names, an’ stuff. That bloke what writ all them words an’ names an’ ev’thing - he juss din’ know when to stop, ‘f y’ask me.”

“’Smy ‘pinion,” he added. “ Scuse me - I couldn’ borr’ a poun’ fra cuppa tea, could I? Yull get it back, swear on me mutha’s grave goblesser.”

“D’y’know who I am? I’m Richard Burton!” insisted Mr Everett, as he was frogmarched to a waiting police van. “Well, I’m not the real Richard Burton – obvioushly - not really. ‘Cos ‘e’s dead. But I’m jus’ like him. He liked a drop, dinee? F’riz nerves. Same ‘ere… y’got ‘ny fags, mate?”

“A dunt do drugs!” he shouted to a bemused street cleaner as he was pushed into the back of the van. “Drugs’re fuh losers. I mean, I wood an’ all, don’ get me wrong… but I’m 50 so like I gotta look after meself in’ I?”

Mr Everett’s virtuoso performance before the magistrate is expected to draw record matinee crowds when it opens later this afternoon.

Sky Announces Plan To Put You Inside A Television

With the launch of its much-trumpeted 3D-football-with-7.1-THX-surround-vuvuzelas channel now confirmed for October 1st, Sky has announced that it is now working on a surround-vision television that will encase you completely, further enhancing the realistic disappointment-of-seeing-your-team-lose-again experience.

The six-foot cube will feature not one, but six hideously expensive 3D screens, and the enclosed football addict will float freely in 1300 gallons of chilled lager, wearing a special 3D facemask connected to an air tank. It is expected to cost £3 million, plus £20000 a month in subscription fees – although £17,000 of that goes on replenishing the lager, which Sky bosses assure customers is a bonus really, if you think about it.

“It’s not cheap,” admitted one of Britain’s many football addicts, “But nothing should come between me and the beautiful game. Not the wife, not the kids, not the house - nothing.”

Fans who still do not have Rupert Murdoch beaming stupidity into their heads 24 hours a day have been advised that there may be another way to achieve the total right-there-on-the-pitch experience.

“We think it’s at least theoretically possible to form together into ‘clubs’, go to a sports shop, buy a ball and kick it around for 90 minutes,” said a clever man in a laboratory with a clipboard.

Plymouth Pavilions Takes A Chance On 'Hot' New Band Fronted By A Mr Suggs

Mr Suggs and His 'Madness' Orchestra

Once again, the city of Plymouth lives up to its reputation as Britain’s foremost showcase of exciting new talent, with the announcement that a zany young beat combo cheekily calling themselves ‘Madness’(!) will be performing in its big shed in December.

“I believe the sprightly Mr Suggs and his young orchestra are trying to introduce their patrons to a form of singing known as ‘the ska’, which I gather is already gaining some popularity in far-flung corners of the empire. And I’m informed that they shall bring their own instruments, too,” said Ebenezer Bumble, manager of Plymouth’s enterprising ‘Pavilions’ shed. “Tea dances are all the rage, of course, but I believe the city’s music-lovers will indulgently lend an ear to a bit of experimental music now and then.”

Mr Bumble then chuckled to himself, as he suddenly remembered that he had in fact allowed Mr Suggs’ self-styled ‘naughty boys’ to swing their hips in his emporium only last year.

“Silly me!” he chortled. “Yes,I seem to recall that there was something of a last-minute kerfuffle when they asked if they could plug their guitars into the electricity. Well, I’m glad to say we have some now, as long as one of them is prepared to keep pedalling the dynamo.”

“I do hope they‘ve learned to play God Save The King this time,” he added. “There was a bit of an unfortunate to-do last time, you know, when a retired admiral threatened to horsewhip them for their damned impertinence.”

Baker Who Burned Down Warburtons Factory ‘Thought Thermostat Was Timer’

A new member of staff at the Warburton’s bread factory in Bolton which is currently burning to a crisp has contacted the Nev Filter - under condition that she remains anonymous - admitting responsibility for the conflagration which ten fire crews are battling to extinguish.

“They gave me 5000 loaves to bake, and told me they wanted them quite well browned,” the teenage work-trial employee said. “There was just this big dial with no numbers on it like. ‘Cos I was bursting for a pee, I thought ten minutes would give me plenty of time to get to the loo and back, so I turned it up full, obviously. I was just making a quick detour to the vending machine in the canteen for some chocolate on my way back, when all these alarms started going off everywhere.”

“I mean, how was I to know I’d set it to like 10,000 degrees fahrenheit?” she added. “It’s not like it’s marked or nothing. So it’s like totally not my fault, is it? Even if it is, sort of.”

“This is the worst disaster to hit Warburtons since the factory had to be reconstructed back in the thirties, after the builders accidentally dropped it upside down,” said a spokesman for the 140-year-old company, adding that “any bloody fool” should have realised what the dial was for. However, when pressed, he finally admitted that although the factory – the third largest bakery in Britain - originally came with a small instruction leaflet, nobody could remember where they’d put it.

He went on to say that, as the firefighters have now almost got the flames under control, the 3300 staff employed at the site might be able to salvage some of the factory by scraping off the charred bits.

“We’ll be claiming off the council for this,” he added. “We’ve been asking them to put a giant smoke alarm in some sort of airship circling high above Bolton for years, but would they listen?”

Newsrooms Finally Admit Existence of Place Called Belgium

Middle-aged news editors who went through a brief teenage rebellion when punk was fashionable finally conceded that there really is a place in Europe called Belgium, after one-hit wonder Plastic Bertrand insisted that he was not the voice singing ‘Ça Plane Pour Moi’ in 1978.

Millions of British viewers and listeners were astonished to hear newsreaders openly reporting the latest turn of events in a legal case in the small and deeply uninteresting country, whose existence has always been strongly denied by the media up to now.

The facts in the royalties dispute are unclear, partly because reporters keep falling asleep through boredom, but it seems that the lyrics to the tiresome, repetitive pop dirge were in fact droned by the record’s producer, whose name is pronounceable only to heavy smokers and treacle drinkers..

“It’s ironic,” said one newdesk veteran at ITN. “This Belgium place has finally burst through into reality after the nearest thing it’s ever produced to a celebrity admitted that he’s never actually done anything at all. Apparently it has some sort of king, too, but nobody at Buckingham Palace knows anything about it.”

Cartographers are now working furiously to re-attach Holland to France, in case the newly-emergent nation ever does anything else worth mentioning.

Doctors Asked To Taunt Fatties Mercilessly

Public health minister Anne Milton has urged doctors to stop using the term ‘obese’ with poor council-estate denizens whose Body Mass Index is 30 or higher, recommending instead that they adopt the expression, “Fuck me! Look at the state of you, you disgusting lardy gutbucket! Get up off that chair before it fucking breaks. Now pick up your wobbling rolls of flab, fatso, and get the fuck out of my surgery. Do the world a favour and choke on some pies. Christ, you make me sick. Go on, piss off - and mind the door frame, or I’ll send you the fucking bill.”

Lower middle class people of both sexes who are merely overweight should be jocularly congratulated on their pregnancy before being handed a patronising list telling them CAKE = BAD and SALAD = GOOD, suggested the parchment-skinned minister - insisting that she was not speaking as a government minister with overall responsibility for the nation’s health, as one might reasonably expect from her job title, but in a purely personal capacity as a sanctimonious old witch in desperate need of a firm slap.

“If I look in a mirror and think I am obese, I think I am less worried than if I think I am fat – although in real life, whenever I pass a mirror, I purr with raw sexual energy at the vision of physical perfection I see before me,” hectored the squinty, skull-faced bonebag to a BBC noddy whose looks have had a far greater impact on their career path than any rudimentary journalistic talents they might possess.

Professor Lyndsey Davies, president of the UK Faculty of Health, sounded a note of caution, however.

"I would probably be more likely to say something like 'ahem can we talk about your weight' rather than invite a well-earned twatting at the hands of a tank on legs,” she cautioned, adding: “There is a lot of stigma to being a fat person. They’ve taken it from their fellow workers, they’ve taken it from their neighbours, they’ve taken it from arseholes leaning out of cars and they’re certainly not going to take any more of it from a patronising golf enthusiast whose mind is largely preoccupied with calculating how many more weeks in Tuscany he can squeeze into a year once he’s flogged his practice to BUPA.”

“Parp,” commented a fat person not a million miles from the Nev Filter offices.

Well-Funded Atheist Organisations Invited To Run Schools

Evangelical atheists swimming in cash could set up their own rationalist schools to counter the flood of applications from mumbo-jumbo fundamentalists, suggested education secretary Michael Gove, 13, who has just finished writing a thousand lines of ‘i must lern to COUNT’.

“One of the most striking things my housemaster read to me recently in assembly was a thought from this funny Dawkins chap that he might want to take advantage of our education legislation to open a new school, which was set up on an explicitly atheist basis,” said Gove, as he began polishing the prefects’ shoes.

“So far we’ve had over 11,000 letters of interest from – coo ur gosh, let me see – Amish, Anglican, Animist, Bahá'í, Baptist, Cargo Cult, Christian Scientist, Greek Catholic, Hasidic, Hindu, Hizb-ut-Tahrir, Jedi, Jehovah’s Witness, Justified Ancient, Kabbalah, Kiddie Fiddler, Methodist, Moonie, Mormon, Nestorian, Nichiren Buddhist, Odin Fellowship, Pixie, Plymouth Brethren, al-Qaeda, Rasta, Russian Orthodox, Satanic, Scignhereologist, Sephardic, Shamanic, Shia, Sikh, Spiritualist, Starry Wisdom, Sumerian, Sunni, Theosophist, Tooth Fairy, United Reformed, Voodoo, Wahhibi, Wee Free, Wishy-Washy Stoner Nonsense and Zoroastrian churches,” he said brightly, “So if some well-organised atheist churches want to put a few thousand bids into the usual sealed envelopes, the more the merrier say I.”

“I mean crikey, I’ve got schools coming out of my ears,” frowned the little minister. “And if I don’t get shot of them all by September, Cameron the head boy who have a face like a squished tomato swore he’d use my head to clean the House of Lords toilets chiz chiz chiz.”