Category: Brexit

Strong and stable Theresa May has, once again, dragged the Downing Street podium into the spotlight in an attempt to appear less wooden. This time, she has made a barefaced plea for Jeremy Corbyn to join her in a coalition of chaos.

This follows an all-day Cabinet meeting, in which the executive was locked in a fortified dungeon until they agreed to support May’s dead duck of a deal. To disguise her intention to put it before Parliament yet again, she insisted that Corbyn was brought on board. This transparent attempt at consensus, she informed them, would allow MV4 to sneak under Bercow’s radar.

In the end, the cabinet folded. Not because they agreed with May, but it was the only way she would let them out to go to the toilet.

“I have today extended the hand of cooperation to Jeremy Corbyn,” May grated. “This is an effort to break the impasse that my pigheaded insistence on illogical red lines has created. It will be chaotic, but that’s because I don’t have much wriggle room left before the EU imposes a democratic election upon us. And that must never be allowed to happen!”

Corbyn allegedly heard the announcement while telling his home-grown spuds that they will soon be Free English Potatoes. But enough about John McDonnell and Keir Starmer.

Corbyn looked the gift horse in the mouth, and decided that it might not have been completely flogged to death after all. He failed to smell a rat (coz it’s a horse, innit), or to attach strings to it as a condition of his cooperation.

May, who had been sweating on Corbyn’s capitulation like only an android can, was relieved. “Finally, we have found the way forward,” she informed the bored press in a long-deserted barn somewhere in northern England. “With Labour on board, I can finally resign, and fuck off into the sunset, leaving Jeremy carrying the can. Brexit? Who gives a toss, I’m loaded!”

With that, she gave the can one last kick for luck and buggered off, leaving both the can and the keys to Number Ten in Corbyn’s bewildered hands.

It will be a truly Socialist Brexit. Await the Red Dawn.

The latest round of indicative votes reveals that Parliament is mightily sick of the whole Brexit charade. It has voted, decisively, for the Cabinet to re-enact the famous closing scene of The Young Ones.

The scene will be updated, naturally. A contemporary luxury coach, emblazoned with misleading slogans and base lies, will be used instead of an old Routemaster. The entire useless cabinet will be substituted for the four useless students. But Cliff Richard will still accompany them on their journey into the abyss.

This, members hope, will create a constitutional crisis, meaning that Brexit will have to be postponed – maybe indefinitely. After all, having voted to annihilate the executive, the parliamentarians are hardly likely to follow them over the cliff edge.

We’re all going on a summer holiday. “It will be easy to persuade them onto the bus,” said conspirator Elle Eventhour. “They didn’t vote, so they spent the evening getting pissed. We have put a crate of Champagne in the Brexit Bus, and put Elgar on the stereo. It will be almost embarrassingly easy.”

No more working for a week or two. “Or ever again, if our plan works,” adds Eventhour. “It’s the ideal way out of trouble. We can go back to the EU and plead special circumstances. Call it a Brexit dividend.”

Fun and laughter on a summer holiday. “Yes, I know it’s only spring, but so what?” argues Eventhour. “They will enjoy their short drive off a high cliff. I bet they will bray with insane laughter as they fall. Everybody’s happy.”

No more worries for me or you. “It will all be over,” sighed Eventhour. “Then we can all relax. We have programmed the playlist on the coach, so that the bus will go over the edge as the final verse of Summer Holiday plays out.”

For a week or two. “Yes, I suppose someone else will have to take over,” admitted Eventhour. “But first we all need a clean break!”

We’re going where the sun shines brightly. Sunlit uplands? Unlikely, but right now we would settle for Bognor Regis.

BREAKING : The all day long meeting of Theresa May’s cabinet, and their special advisors the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, broke for an unscheduled time out just moments ago, even though no decision on which rider to inflict on the public first has yet been reached.

“I’m frankly fed up with it,” Famine texted LCD Views to say, “I’ve worn out overseeing Universal Credit as it is. Do you know how taxing it is to take the seed of an idea born in Iain Duncan Smith’s brain and drive it all the way through to fulfilment? I really don’t get paid enough. But now they’ve got me hanging about month after month to help Brexit. Elevating Brexit to the position of fifth rider was supposed to ease the workload, as he can multi-task like no one when it comes to ruination, but he’s not yet been allowed to start work. I’m fed to the gills. Which is not something I normally say, given I feed off modern Conservative Party policies and my appetite is endless.”

And Famine wasn’t the only rider to message during the garden break.

“None of them have got any balls,” Death texted, “they just talk and talk and talk. It’s pretty tiresome. I’ve a ten year plan that starts with Brexit, preferably No Deal, but any Brexit will do, as it’s about breaking apart the EU as a peace project. You know, return the European continent back to its traditional values of bloody squabbles and mass conflict. Not this mind numbing nonsense of sitting about in committees debating regulations and rights. Yawn. I’m tempted to skip out and go and see what Trump is up to. No one will notice, I’m ever present, always looking over your shoulder anyway.”

But perhaps the most scathing message was received from Brexit itself.

“I’ve learned to ride. I’ve got a saddle. I’m good to go. What is the bloody hold up? Why won’t they let me get to work? I’m with Death. None of them have got any balls. If I have to take anymore of listening to May and those planks in there bleat on, trying to square the circle of destroying the country for the profit of disaster capitalists, while not destroying their party, I’m going to lose it. Just as well Labour didn’t back the motion to have an emergency break in the event of a No Deal Brexit,

“I just hope Labour can triangulate its membership long enough, and fence sit long enough for May and the Tories to finally deliver me. I can tell you. It’s going to be quite a final birth by the mother of all parliaments! One more push love! Right now I’m just crowning.”

ERG stalwart and utterly reliable rentagobshite Andrew Bridgen has excelled himself. He has gone so far up his own arse that he has reappeared out of his own mouth.

“The House of Commons is out of touch,” he wittered. “We’ve betrayed the people. Even as a fine, upstanding member of the House of Commons, it is not my responsibility. I am, however, perfectly happy to point fingers at anyone and everyone around me!”

The potato farmer, once described as ‘thick as mash’, is obviously oblivious to the fact that he himself is part of the problem. So every time he opens his big mouth, he disappears a few more inches up his own fundament.

“Parliament is unable to deliver a proper Brexit,” he drooled, disappearing another few feet into his digestive system. “This is nothing to do with the destructive nature of the ERG, or myself personally. Running away and mouthing off to the press, moaning about the mess that I and my chums have made, is in the job description.”

Steady progress through the intestines.

“In fact, the reason that Brexit has been lost, stolen, destroyed, or dug up and made into chips is entirely due to parliamentary remoaners,” he crowed. “If only they had come up with the idea of Brexit, they might have got behind it instead of going through process.”

He indicated air quotes at this last word, as he shot through his stomach and started on the final journey up the oesophagus.

“In fact, it’s about time that we put a proper, plain speaking man in charge,” he wibbled. “Like me, or my mate Mark Francois. Someone who isn’t afraid to say ‘up yours’ to filthy remoaners like Philip Hammond.”

At which, the journey complete, he popped out of his own mouth. Utterly full of himself, puffed up and unable to move, like a potato in fact, he was abandoned as a warning to others.

Onlookers debated whether to call a doctor, but decided sod it, it’s only Andrew Bridgen.

A hapless woman, who many see as effectively a fence for the wholesale smash and grab of British democracy, is to have another go at passing on the goods today.

Intelligence received by this newspaper suggests the alleged mover for the criminal enterprise, believed to run a pizza takeaway as a front at 55 Tufton Street, will be lurking in the backstreets and tourist attractions of Westminster today, trying again to offload the hot property.

“You don’t want to be caught holding the goods when the music stops,” our democratic detective says, “although to be fair to the masterminds behind the burglary, if they can successfully move on the merchandise, and use the resulting financial gains to buy more power, it’s unlikely they’ll ever be held to account.”

Reports that the whole gang maybe stopped at the last minute and the stolen sovereignty returned to the people, and their parliament, have encouraged many to have hope she won’t get away with it.

“I would be careful,” our analyst says, “when you put it up on the white board it looks like she has bugger all chance of getting away with fencing the UK, but some of the people in the cartel that dreamed up the crime are in very high places.”

And a lot of the police that are supposed to be on watch for just this sort of activity are compromised?

“Oh, some certainly are, without a doubt, others are just useful idiots. Which isn’t too helpful. And others still reckon they can hijack the truck with all the merch in the back at the last minute and drive it to a collectivised farm. It’s touch and go at the moment.”

Boffins from the University of somewhere or other have discovered the remarkable creature alive and well in mainland Britain. The creature, if allowed to live, will eventually consume itself in an orgy of contradiction.

This beast has been provisionally named “Cannibalia Brexitus”. It is believed to convince itself over time that its own flesh is the sweetest around. It then corners and traps itself, before consuming itself.

A large colony of Cannibalia Brexitus has been unearthed under our very noses in Westminster. Cunningly disguised as politicians, they were once considered to be merely up their own arses. Right idea, wrong orifice.

It starts as a simple case of putting your foot into your mouth. This often happens by accident, although it can become a habit. Chris Grayling is a case in point. This tendency can easily result in auto-cannibalism.

The transformation into a self-devouring monster can sometimes be delayed by the victim. In this instance, they normally produce humungous amounts of shit, and feed on that instead. This is the case with rentagobshites like Iain Duncan Smith. These intermediate stage creatures are often called bottom feeders.

But the peak of the evolutionary scale – or, more accurately, the trough – is when the creature manages to reach a plateau of isolation and narcissistic self-hatred. Cornered by its malfunctioning protective instincts, it becomes so detached from reality that serving up your own living flesh for dinner becomes not only a possibility, but desirable.

The boffins describe the creature hunting itself, becoming its own prey. They have surmised some kind of out-of-body experience must occur. However, once the transformation has taken place, victims are usually too far gone into their alternative reality to speak to experts.

Theresa May is the most prominent example of this phenomenon. The same scientists believe that she is merely an empty husk, and that she has eaten herself away from within. She is likely to implode completely upon contact with reality.

There is a cure, but it is a desperate remedy, and not always successful. It’s called a general election.

It seems you can’t move for covers and re-recordings of classic songs these days, but the latest such announcement comes with a peculiar twist.

The Prime Minister herself (at least she still is at the time of writing) is recording a cover version of Cher’s hit “If I Could Turn Back Time”, dedicated to Andrea Leadsom, her main rival for leadership of the conservative party back in 2016 after David Cameron resigned.

The chorus has undergone a slight lyrical change:

If I could turn back time, if I could change it all
I’d let you take charge of Brexit, take my fall

An unofficial source close to the PM said:

“Theresa is starting to realise that this whole Brexit debacle is something she could have done without. She knows there’s no way she’s getting out of this with any political credibility intact, and she is wishing she’d let someone else take the rap for this.”

The nameless source (who could, let’s admit, be pretty much any senior tory official these days) added:

“It’s not that Theresa regrets being PM, she just wishes she’d waited until after this whole incident and been the backstabber, not the backstabbee.”

I noticed the hooded figure had a knife in his hand, which he was trying desperately to conceal from me. I decided to take his word on the issue, and left before there was any chance of the knife ending up in my own back – or indeed front, given it could have been Gove.

The B-side of this single is going to be another Cher song with a slight lyrical twist, “I Got EU Babe”.
The single is due for release on the 29th of March.

A man prone to using a foreign language in public has been told that he should ‘go home’. The man is understandably upset about this, as nobody in their right mind would want to go to North-East Somerset.

Jacob Rees-Mogg – for it is he – is most upset that anyone could mistake him for anything other than a fine, rather uplifting, English gentleman. Unfortunately, his name is a giveaway, being a mixture of Hebrew, Welsh and Cat.

“Carpe diet sum!” exclaimed Rees-Mogg, angrily. “We must Seize the Diet, and take back control of our food consumption!”

It is uncertain whether Rees-Mogg was referring to the Diet of Worms. A recent event to him, the Diet of 500 years ago, like Brexit, failed to achieve its objectives. Go home, Jacob. Nobody likes you, everybody hates you. Go home.

“It is absolutely disgraceful that one should suffer this kind of abuse,” Rees-Mogg mewed. “I mean, foreigners who are, shall we say, visibly foreign, are fair game of course, but an Englishman’s home is his castle in the air and he should not be subjected to this kind of treatment. The only treatments one expects are to stiffen one’s upper lip, chin reductions, and concoctions to ease the passage of furballs.”

The news coincides nicely with Nigel Farage’s proposed March to Leave. Rees-Mogg indicates that he will not join it, although he may send a flunkey in his stead. “It is rather below the standards of the ruling class to join a protest march,” he miaowed. “Quod erat demonstration.”

We suggested that he was taking rather too much offence. “No, no not at all,” he replied, cattily. “After all, the British People stand by the Royal motto, Dieu et mon droit cornu. God and my right wing!”

Erm, I think you may just have strayed into Monty Python territory there.

“Certainly not!” he replied haughtily. “Honi soit qui mal y Brexit, and that’s my final word.”

With that, he stalked off to the litter tray, before curling up on the sofa in such a way so as to make it impossible for anyone else to share it.