Category: Brexit

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.

LCD Views can report live tonight from the same country as the House of Commons that Parliament has just narrowly rejected a motion calling on them to cover the entire U.K. in monkey shit while screaming.

The motion, which if it had passed due to liberal ingestion of political stool softener, would have seen MPs bound to personally procure monkeys, overfeed them, give them laxatives and then put the result into a tank, in a backpack, attached to a hose with a spray nozzle.

”It’s a ghastly missed opportunity,” Tory ERG BORG Foreign Stooge Brexiter and Monkey Scat fancier, A Bridge (MP for Planks) told us, “what am I supposed to do now with all the monkey shit I’ve already accumulated? The BBC only broadcasts the Today programme once a day. It’s not enough for me to get rid of it all off my own bat. I guess I’ll have to start eating it?”

Other MPs, also in favour of covering the entirety of the U.K. in monkey shit while laughing, were not to be defeated though.

”I’m still going to do it. Every face in my constituency will be covered in it by the time I’m finished. Then I’ll put my rosette on and get voted back in. What a laugh being an MP is! No wonder it’s so popular as a hobby.”

However people putting away the wet wipes and disinfectant are warned not to act too swiftly.

”It was a non-binding vote,” our correspondent reminds, “and covering the entirety of the U.K. in monkey shit while screaming is still government policy and actually the law come the end of March. It’ll take more than this vote tonight to stop it happening.”

We can’t advise if it will be stopped from happening. We advise you develop a taste for monkey shit or maybe get out and march on March 23rd when the anti-covering U.K. in monkey shit march marches. It can be stopped, but it will need some rather clueless and terrified MPs to understand there’s no taste for it.

LCD Views has the scoop this morning on what is going to happen soon, with the advanced intel from late March 2019, that parliament has asked the Vatican to send over an exorcist.

“More correctly it will be a Brexorcist,” our time traveller reports, “but that’s just a branding thing, it’s araldite exorcising, as Brexit is the devil itself, so they can send any of their top exorcists to get it done. The real question is how to dress for the situation. Does the Brexorcist wear a dog collar and black clothes like normal? Or perhaps a wet suit, plastic apron and a face mask?

“It’s a pretty scatological procedure. You really don’t want any of the green gunk that will come gushing out of the UK getting on your best church clothes. You just want to burn whatever you’re wearing when you’re done.”

The choice of clothing is a problematic one, as the right balance must be struck between producing enough sense of the dramatic to engage the devil Brexit’s attention, and not having to shower hourly for a week after you’re done.

“We’re still waiting for a reply from the Vatican. We understand that when the request is made later this month it will go right to the top, but Pope Francis is so busy, like every other state leader in the EU, he may feel he has more pressing things to deal with than the UK’s never-ending psychodrama in service of tax havens. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to generate another worm hole and go further back in time. The lights will dim presently for a few seconds and I’ll be gone.”

How far back are you going?

“Back to 2014 to stop Ed Miliband eating that frigging bacon sandwich, which is how all this nonsense began.”

But surely if you succeed we wouldn’t be having this discussion in the first place as the bacon sandwich photo op would never have happened?

“Now is not really the time to get entangled in time travel theories, we’ve got to stop the UK going back to the 1950’s with a 19th century mindset! Anyway, when I change the past I may create a branching line to a new future in which we have this discussion and then it’s undone. But this is the first time I’ve done it.”

You only half understood ‘A Briefly History of Time’.

“FFS. This is a not supposed to degenerate into the sort of infighting nonsense of a Momentum run CLP meeting. If it wasn’t for that bacon sandwich we’d currently be witnessing a coalition government of Labour and whatever was left of the Libdems in 2015 facing a meltdown caused by the LRG (Lexit Research Group), led by a barely relevant allotment holder, threatening to bring them down if he doesn’t get to personally supervise the fifteenth re-nationalisation of the East Coast mainline. You know what they say, a stitch in time saves nine.”

LCD Views is pleased to trumpet today that the dominant species of predatory dinosaur in the UK’s Spinocene period has big news.

”This new agreement, reached overnight with the comet hurtling towards our world, ensures a legally binding change to our extinctions agreement,” the dinosaur said,

“I unsheathed my talons, I bared my six inch, dagger like teeth and I wore a power chain, then I said, Mr Comet, I am just going to keep coming back and back until you agree something that can be spun as an incremental change to your trajectory. In this I can claim complete success. And I expect the other dinosaurs to back it.”

The change, which is described as world changing by the dinosaur itself, commits the comet to attempt really, really hard not to smash into the dinosaur’s world and blow most of it to smithereens, vaporise what isn’t blown apart and choke the rest in a nuclear winter style climate that will see asset stripping alpha predators feeding off the carcasses of the first to perish, before they turn to rending each other to shreds for a meal.

Whatever agreement is reached this will be the outcome, so reach whatever agreement you want as this is the outcome by design by those who are making a song and dance of reaching an agreement.

”Many smaller dinosaurs make the mistake of thinking we are negotiating with a collection of largely herbivorous, slow moving, plant munching, long tailed sauruses  of various kinds in order to still be able to feed after the collision event,” the dinosaur clarified for those who are confused by headlines in the Tyrannosaurus Gazette, but this is not the case,

”we are negotiating with fate itself, with a heavenly body of cataclysmic power versus our world as it is today. A massive ball of ice and rock hurtling through space on a collision course we can not possibly understand until after it hits us all in the face. So long as I get to stop other dinosaurs going where they like I will be satisfied. Extinction event means extinction event, and we’re going to make a success of it.”