Communicating through a shadowy figure known only as ‘Bernard Cribbins’, the Wombles have increased the number of coronavirus tests being carried out daily by more than 400% and also found the time to have a gently amusing mishap over an old umbrella then enjoy a slice or two of elmbark pie followed by double buttercup ice-cream.
“The Wombles are the heroes we need right now,” Mr Cribbins told reporters at the Number Ten daily briefing. “Some may say they have no experience, no plan and are in fact fictional. To them I say this – they’re still a better bet than Boris Johnson.”
“It’s a majorly important job that’s getting a lot of attention right now,” said village incomer Oofy Eastof. “So naturally those of us who make Kirsty Allsop look like Sid Vicious are taking it for ourselves and our offspring.”
“Lysander and I are hoping that Cassian will take a BSc (Vans) at Waitrose. We’d be happy with Sainsbury’s too obviously but he is very, very bright and I’m not sure they’d offer him enough of a challenge.”
“My sister-in-law’s eldest has just scraped into Budgens and we’re trying to be supportive there but it’s now glaringly obvious what a hopeless underachiever that child is.”
Asked what she expected people who have the practical skills to be delivery van drivers but can’t afford to study the subject for three years to do, Oofy replied that “They could always establish a lavatory paper delivery business and start from the bottom.”
“Like many people since lockdown I’ve been at risk of turning into an endgame Henry VIII but without all the fun of having had six wives and a big argument with the Pope first,” said villager Cassie Fine. “But now I’m getting some much needed daily exercise all thanks to Michael Gove. One look and I’m on my feet running from the room to get away from his wet-lipped cascade of mendacity.”
“My wife stays in front of the TV and really works her muscles gesturing in disbelief at almost every word he says but she’s always been hardcore. Back in the day she could hold plank position all the way through a David Cameron speech on why it was necessary to fuck the NHS rigid without even a shiver of disgust.”
Rumours that another Downing Street workout series ‘Sprinting Away with Dominic Cummings’ will soon be launched remain persistent but unconfirmed.
*August Derleth by which we really mean the Wikipedia page on Cthulhu
“It’s ace and skill,” said Manky Kevin, a spokesbadger for Harold’s mustelidae community. “With you lot out of the way us animals can do our thing without being hunted, run over or getting Attenboroughed. We love Sir David really but he’s a lot. Okay, occasionally it’s fun to do something spectacular for the camera but sometimes one just wants to be left alone to groom one’s jumble-giblets or contemplate the infinite over a week old chicken carcass one dragged out of a bin.”
“We’re hearing that some of you don’t like being shut away and are getting bored, maybe even a bit distressed,” added his colleague, Furry Rita. “I’ll be sure to mention that to my friends in the zoo once I’ve stopped laughing.”
“We’re going to be launching a change.org petition soon for all animals to sign calling for it to be made law that humans are kept in their homes forever,” she said. “We anticipate it’ll be a great success as soon as one of us learns how to type.”
“Time seems to have come to a complete standstill,” said long-retired local horologist Mike Winterbourne, watching the Indoor Bowling. “It seems a very long time ago now, but I was a fit, young working man when I put the Christmas Tree away.”
Politically, the electorate are beginning to feel there is some sort of sleight of hand going on.
“We’ve been hoodwinked,” said Harold Brexiteer, Gavin Williams. “Boris said he’d get it done by the end of the month, but he never told us January would last longer than the whole of the previous four years added together.”
ACT 1. The guests arrive.
Sussex, entering left, courtseying : “You sent for me, Ma’am?”
Cornwall, whispering to HM: “See how he removes the Royal Cloak and hangs it on the peg? No son of mine…”
Cambridge: “Welcome, let us hug so that we may be Brothers in Arms.”
Sussex pushing him aside: “Fuck’st off, thou unchin-nosed fustelarian.”
ACT 2. The Queen’s Drawing Room.
HM: “So tell me Sussex – I’ll call you Harry – let’s speak of Meghan, whom thou didst marry.”
Sussex: “I love her Ma’am, with all my heart; I hear sweet music, tho’ she doth loudly fart.”
HM: “’Tis love for sure; I used to feel the same to hear my Edi snore.”
Edinburgh, aside to Cornwall: “It’s those Swan Down pillows, mate; they me do nightly suffocate.”
Cambridge, earwigging: “Suffolk Kate? Yet it is sworn by certificate: she’s Pangbourne born and no mistake.”
Edinburgh: “Sir Tiffy Kate? Is that her dad?”
Cornwall: “The hour – ’tis late – the sun glows red. Come on, father, let us get thee back a-bed.”
HM: “To business, Harry, now, in verse, how willst thou manage without my Purse?”
Sussex: “I’ve thirty million in my account. I may not be Rees-Mogg, but ’tis still a good amount.”
HM: “But, in America, ’tis no wealth! Illness there comes free, one has to pay for health.”
Cambridge: “Bro, you married a beauty; but where’s thy sense of Royal Duty? Hast thou lost it?”
Sussex: “Go away, you pompous git.”
ACT 3. In the hallway.
A knock on the front door is heard. (‘Tis Andrew, delivering pizzas.)
HM: “Quick, let us in the garden walk. I know that knock. It’s that dork, York.”
ACT 4: At the back garden gate.
HM: “Oh bugger, there’s the Press! Butler, fetch one’s crown – one’s hair is such a mess!”
HM (to the assembled reporters): ”Summit’s aborted. Come back Wednesday.”
Sussex (to camera): “Sorted.”
[photo credit: By USDAgov – https://www.flickr.com/photos/usdagov/8674435033/sizes/o/in/photostream/, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=25727555]
“We shall be working towards financial independence, apart from a small amount of Pension Credit and Housing Benefit,” said a statement on behalf of Doris Kettle (72) and her late husband.
“One’s time shall be split between the park and the care home,” Doris told the Evening Harold, adding “this will not impact upon one’s personal carbon footprint, before you ask.”
The move threw Royal Researchers a massive googly as they tried to keep the National Sequence of Succession website up to date.
“The last thing we need is a spate of copycat abdications,” said one royal commentator, while others are questioning whether ‘stepping down’ is an actual constitutional option available to common people.
Nevertheless, comrade Corbyn, who twice narrowly missed out on becoming Prime Minister, is now one step closer to becoming King.
“He was taken out when he went for a take out,” said Prue Leith, as she set about preparing a special cake to send to Donald Trump.
Rather than admit his mistake, Trump has continued to insist that Hollywood was a ruthless character assassin who was planning to make a lot of dough.
“What a great way to start the New Year,” he tweeted, “this really is the cherry on top of the icing on the cake.”
Sandy Toksvig was too upset to comment, but Noel Fielding was more philosophical about the situation.
“At least it was a swift end,” he said. “He wouldn’t have known anything about it, apart from hearing a mighty woosh.”
The insanely evil but inexplicably foxy home secretary Priti Patel today announced that the threat of terrorism in the UK had been reduced from ‘Holy shit, we’re all going to die’ to the lower level of ‘Fucking hell, run for it’.
This is the first time the terror threat has been set so low since it was raised from ‘Jesus, that was close’ back in 2014.
“Clearly we are reviewing the situation continuously” advised Ms Patel while gnawing on a human leg bone.
“We are of course looking forward to when we finally take back control with our own traditional British terrorism. Back to the halcyon days when we could look warily at anyone who has a regional accent, and we can lock up people without trial with impunity again”.
Cherry faced, rotund pile of fetid human detritus, the ironically named MP for Rayleigh and Wickford, Mark François, opined nostalgically, “I don’t mind being blown up, as long as there is a coded warning 5 mins before and that it’s white people doing the bombing. Back when terrorists knew how to do terroristics properly, like real gentlemen. Heady days.”
Meanwhile the security services remain vigilant in the hope that one day we can look forward to the terror threat being reduced to its lowest level of “Call that a bomb? I’ve sharted more damage than that, mate”.
“After the Supreme Court ruled prorogation of Parliament unlawful, we’ve raised our schadenfreude alert to ‘critical’” said a Westminster source.
“The smiles getting wiped off the faces of Boris Johnson, Dominic Cummings, and the rest of the Brexiters will be a serious test of our schadenfreude reserves, as will joy in the implosion of the Daily Mail.”
“And the sheer unadulterated pleasure of seeing Tony Blair’s sad face as Jeremy Corbyn becomes PM means we won’t just run out of schadenfreude, we’ll likely run out of schadenorgasm as well.”
While Germany is sympathetic to the looming schadenfreude shortage, they say they can’t send any supplies to the UK as they need all their schadenfreude for domestic consumption with their population equally fascinated with the Tory meltdown.
“The British will just have to make do with some homegrown ‘joyinthemisfortuneofothers’” said a German spokesman.
But Johnson says he remains confident there’ll be no post-Brexit shortages of schadenfreude. “We’re already in talks with China for a shipment of cheap, tariff-free gloat,” he confirmed.
“They said Austerity was over. Didn’t see anybody celebrating. They thought it was going to be like a War Is Over Lennon Ono anthem blaring out of the wireless and everybody dancing in the streets. Turned out damper than a squid that’s been dunked in a jar of tepid ale. Another pint?”
“But PPI, though. Nobody saw that coming and nobody saw it coming to an end either. And coinciding with a Bank Holiday. Last week, we had a couple of tourists in the Lickers. Spoke with a funny accent like that. I said ‘Who are you?’ and the bloke goes ‘Tourists’. I said ‘We don’t serve terrorists. Oh, you’re tourists. Are you both Taurus?’ Gin and tonic?”
“I’m putting on a Special on Thursday, which is when PPI ends, at midnight. Bit of a knees-up, Vera Lynn on the box. Miserable old git in the corner, going on about how he forgot to send his coupon in. He thinks it’s like the football pools. Then, when we get to midnight, it dawns on us – no more PPI phone calls! No more Angie’s Advice.”
“Boris up there, going ‘Oy, hold your horses, chaps, we haven’t finished Brexit yet.’ It’s not Brexit dividing the country, mate, it’s PPI. It’s those who claimed and those who didn’t. We all put up with the phone calls, but only 52% bothered to claim. The other 48% said, ‘No, we’re alright as we are, thanks.’ Now it’s over and nobody gives a toss one way or the other. Top up?”
“Anyway, you know what’s coming next, don’t you. Have you been mis-charged fees on your PPI claim?”
“A bit more aviation fuel pollution isn’t going to do any harm,” said local climatologist Mike Fairchild. “Compared to the amount of puke and poos she’s going to drop in the ocean, it would be a drop in the ocean. It wouldn’t even be in the ocean.”
“Birds have evolved to keep out of the way of planes. Now we have to start thinking about the whales and sharks who are traumatised when a massive shit comes their way after a ship passes.”
“Thunberg is famous for her green credentials,” he continued, “and it shows on her face the moment she steps on board a boat. Puke and diarrhoea are best stored in a sewer behind a fat-ball, not dumped on the seabed.”
“This whole eco-trip by boat malarkey is going to backfire and she’ll be left with egg on her face and ketchup running down her smock,” he added.
B is for ‘ballroom’, such an elegant place;
C is for ‘corset’, which should be worn tight;
D is for ‘duke’, much better than ‘knight’;
E is for ‘engagement’, a contract before marriage;
F is for ‘fargon’, a most useful carriage;
G is for ‘God’, in whom we all trust;
H is for ‘help’, a good nanny’s a must;
I is for ‘inferior’, which poor people are;
J is for ‘job’, like ‘tosher’ or ‘char’;
K is for ‘knife’, please set to the right;
L is for ‘love’, an upsetting sight;
M is for ‘mourning’, you need the right clothes;
N is for ‘nosegay’, oft given by beaus;
O is for ‘opium’, an efficacious tonic;
P is for ‘poverty’, an illness most chronic;
Q is for ‘quarry’, a fox, pheasant or deer;
R is for ‘rule’, which men do, that is clear;
S is for ‘season’, when girls look for a suitor;
T is for ‘templum’ (this is latin neuter);
U is for ‘unmentionables’, mostly lady parts;
V is for ‘Victorian’, the noblest of hearts;
W is for ‘wife’, a woman’s greatest aim;
X is for ‘xenophobia’, in which there’s no shame;
Y is for ‘yard’, an imperial measurement;
Z is for ‘Zulu’, a dark foe most unpleasant.
“Cometh the hour, cometh the cat” is being whispered the length and breadth of the country, with Larry expected to live up to his job description and deal with the incoming blonde vermin problem.
“If Larry the cat doesn’t bite Johnson’s head off, or at the very least playfully catch and torture him till he scurries away, he might as well not be there” said an MP who wishes to remain anonymous. “But knowing our luck, Larry is just as likely to think Boris is his ‘spirit human’ given their shared love for doing nothing for 20 hours a day, and spending the other 4 hours eating food and having indiscriminate sex.”
Current Downing Street occupant Teresa May says she respects the Tory leadership election process. “Boris won fair and square, I admit that. I also admit that neither Philip nor I have fed Larry for 3 weeks and he is looking rather hungry.”
The Lib Dems and SNP strongly support Larry getting rid of Johnson, with the kinder gentler Lib Dems preferring a humane relocation, while the SNP prefers Larry “bites the bastarts heid aff – slowly.”
Despite Labour Party membership being overwhelmingly in favour of Larry the cat getting rid of Johnson, Jeremy Corbyn refused to be drawn on a position saying “Larry could eat Johnson, or he could let him remain, we are the party of both eaters and non-eaters”.
In an interview with The Strand magazine, which ceased publication in March 1950, Mogg (Rees) claimed that his habit was entirely due to the influence of a family domestic servant, who introduced him to tincture of laudanum in a final attempt to get him to shut up.
“I was just a skinny lad, never knew no good from bad,” he told Strand journalists. “But I knew Arkwright’s Patent Syrup of Opium before I left my nursery.”
“Left alone with big fat Fanny, she was such a naughty nanny, to be honest I think she only tried drugging me after strangulation didn’t work.”
The admission comes as Theresa May enjoys her final days in Downing Street, with a number of the prime minister’s Conservative colleagues vying to replace her.
Speaking on BBC Radio 4’s Today programme on Saturday, Mogg-Jason’s leadership rival Dominic Raab said he did not believe the admission would have an impact on Mogg-Rees-Jason’s chances in the leadership race. He said: “I certainly don’t see it barring him from this race in any way. I rather admire his honesty.”
Raab, who has previously admitted taking cannabis as a student, added: “It was a long time ago and pretty few and far between. I have never taken cocaine or any class-A drugs.”
“Mind, you, I am a total cunt – that might stand against me a bit.”
“Shamima’s baby, who was British, was allowed to die purely to satisfy the animal rage of people who wanted to glory in saying ‘I told you so’ to a girl who was groomed at age 15′, explained a Home Office spokesperson, “And we think that’s great.”
Clear-thinking commentators from a range of newspapers owned by foreign billionaires were unanimous that Javid’s neglect of a British baby was a master-stroke.
“The thing you have to remember,” drawled Reginald Bastard from the Daily Monster, “is that month-old babies tend not to vote, and the same thing can probably be said for 15-year-old groomed schoolgirls.”
“Our readers, on the other hand, are voters one and all, and getting them onside with a touch of sickening populism is a pretty smart move.”
“We reckon they’ve probably won a good half a dozen voters here, which is probably more than they’ve got in the last two years.”
Javid’s next move was unclear at time of going to press, but unconfirmed reports claimed he has been sighted high up at the crater of an active volcano, poised to throw a refugee child into the bubbling lava below and screaming at all the Gods to bring improved poll results to his Bromsgrove constituency.
Manafort sat still in a wheelchair and betrayed little emotion as the US district judge TS Ellis of the eastern district of Virginia pronounced the sentence, which will be partially offset by several cushion pokes already received.
The sentence seems far more lenient than federal sentencing guidelines, which call for 19 to 24 years in prison for these types of crimes.
However, Judge Ellis described the guidelines as “excessive” and “out of whack”, saying Manafort had no prior criminal history, had lived “an otherwise blameless life”, and was a nice white man.
Critics have pointed to a possible disparity in severity of sentencing, given that a young black man was yesterday sentenced to death by nuclear explosion after committing the relatively minor crime of “looking at a policeman in a funny way.”
Ellis was quick to refute that Manafort’s sentence was in any way unduly light, telling reporters that cushion poking can be extremely unpleasant, depending on the cushion, and he had in any case instructed his staff to make sure that “all the stuffing was up one end”.