Category: Governing the people

FINGERS FIRMLY IN EARS : The UK is on course for more continuity governance with last Thursday’s shock by-election defeat for Keir Starmer’s government unlikely to force a course correction.

“The people have spoken,” a Labour Home Office spokesman told LCD Views, “and we heard them.”

The message the people delivered has been described by seasoned Westminster observers as “unequivocal” and “heartfelt”, also “WTF”.

“We have been in government long enough to know we’re entitled to be in government,” the spokesman expanded, “and the people must be governed, I grant you not always well, but governed they must be.”

How this translates into policy is clear.

“Last Thursday, in that place up north, the people had a choice between Labour, The Stop Drowning Puppies Party and The Drown More Puppies Party. The people wanted to ensure we were still paying attention to them so chose a treat them mean to keep them keen voting strategy. We have heard them. Cheeky little devils. To think we’re so stupid as to take their actions at face value. You can’t fool us.”

But what policy changes will result from the shock defeat to Labour in one of its most loyal constituencies?

“We aren’t going to take the wrong lessons from last Thursday. The Drown More Puppies Party pushed us into third place. That means the people want us to drown more puppies and drown more puppies we will. We are going to drown them in ponds, in pools, in ditches, in tubs we set up outside supermarkets, in pubs, in pub carparks, in cars in pub carparks, essentially anywhere we can so everyone understands our position. You’ll soon see the polls shifting again.”

When asked if the fact The Stop Drowning Puppies Party won the vote, and decisively, might suggest the people actually don’t want the government to drown puppies at all, the spokesman just laughed.

“You made up political hacks are all the same,” he scoffed, “one decisive rejection of government direction and you run off suggesting the government should change direction. That’s hardly the sort of government the people have been used to since 2010. Let the adults make the decisions.”

But in spite of the clarity of Downing Street’s response to the by-election defeat, some on the Labour backbenches are not convinced.

“I blame social media,” one backbench MP told LCD Views. “All the top brass are constantly on X being swamped with bots and bad actors telling them the Great British Public like drowning puppies and anyone that doesn’t is a woketard. Perhaps if instead of considering a social media ban for U16’s, Downing Street considered one for itself, we might stand a chance.”

When asked if he would be drowning even more puppies the MP just grimaced.

“I’ve no time,” he replied, “they’ve already got me shouting at the sea all next week at Dover so no one pays attention to the fact they’re drowning puppies.”

JOLLY GOOD SHOW MY DEAR OLD THING will be a relic of the past, if Reform gets their way. They want to completely redefine British Values in their own image.

Most people believe that British Values have something to do with being relentlessly polite. Being modest in victory and gracious in defeat. Shaking hands and using old-fashioned phrases like ‘Spiffing, my dear fellow’ or ‘Rather, old bean’. A pat on the back and cups of tea all round.

Reform disagree. Reform love to use the phrase ‘British Values’. It is a suitable shorthand for ‘This is what we believe, therefore everyone else should believe it too’. It is a cover for all their unpleasant and frankly unBritish views. Reform spokesWeeble ‘Lacquer’ Grace Noates explained further.

“British Values means British Values,” clarified Lacquer Grace. “British Values is really our promise to put Common Sense and The Voice Of The Silent Majority into law.”

But what are these British Values, and how have Reform identified them and defined them?

“Do your own research!” shouted Lacquer Grace when confronted with this horribly biased and unnecessary question.

Lacquer Grace may not have been very forthcoming, but plenty of disgruntled ex-Reform councillors were happy to fill in the gaps.

“Flags, flags, and more fucking flags,” said Marcin Ordersz, who was kicked out of the party after someone discovered that he was Polish. “Shouting at anything, and anybody. Refusing to accept reality. Sulking and whining whenever they get a reality check. Redefining the word ‘woke’ as the worst kind of insult possible. I could go on.”

And he did, not forgetting to include ‘talking so much that nobody else can get a word in’. We left him to his angry rant, now directed at a hotel full of his compatriots.

Also included: owning your own propaganda channel, and being absolutely fine with exchanging large amounts of cash in brown envelopes.

HEAD HIT WALL : LABOUR PARTY HQ have today responded to Thursday’s staggering by-election loss up north somewhere by requesting a meeting with Nigel Farage.

While it’s not entirely clear what questions will be asked at the meeting, what is clear is that the leadership of the UK’s worker’s party will invite Nigel Farage to takeover as leader.

“Mr Farage will have no issue abandoning Reform,” A Reform Party insider told LCD Views. “Sorry. That’s Sir Nigel Farage, as his first act as Prime Minister will be to recommend himself for a knighthood in the hope that Donald Trump will send him a heart emoji over Whatsapp.”

The expectation that Labour will shift even fuhrer to the right politically has taken no one at all by surprise, except for a single man in Croydon, London, who voted for Labour at the last General Election, and then was hit by a bus while leaving the polling station.

“We don’t have a choice,” the Labour Party insider confirmed. “When you look at our polling? Well. It’s got to be bottle of whiskey and revolver time for Starmer. Although, given Keir’s track record as PM he will probably dither for a few days before first shooting a toy poodle in a park, before working out he was supposed to have taken the final symbols of office metaphorically and issuing a non-apology apology, and attempting a reboot while walking into a broom cupboard.”

There is little chance though of voters getting a say once Sir Farage takes over as PM.

“I wouldn’t be too concerned,” the Reform insider commented, “Nigel will most likely just issue BritCrypto, cash in on the stupidity of the common man, demand Andrew Mount Something Or Other is made King before passing a law that children should be taught to smoke at school again and dashing off to Florida for a well earned rest.”

“Any idiot thinking we should take the shock by-election loss as a lesson to tack back to the left has failed to learn the lesson of yesterday,” the Labour insider stated. “Reform were second place yesterday. That means they are poised to win. If we can ape them hard enough we’ll be poised to win. It’s not about reversing the baffling Tory impersonation we’ve been doing, it’s about putting machine gun nests on the beach at Dover. That will get us back into contention.”

Asked for comment, Mr Starmer’s office issued a statement so bland we couldn’t be bothered to print it.

LOCAL MAN WINS BIG : GREAT NEWS TODAY FOR A LOCAL WESTMINSTER MAN with the announcement that he has won the coveted “Dog Who Caught Car Award” for the third year running.

“No one else was even on the pitch,” an insider in the judging panel told LCD Views. “It’s not even a surprise anymore. He just runs after that 10 Downing Street car woofing like a mad dog and grabs it by the exhaust. Then looks confused. Baffled. Adjusts his glasses and decides to mostly do what the dog who caught the car before him did.”

The keen government car chaser wasn’t always in the running for the trophy.

“He was a non-starter for many years,” the insider comments. “He first showed up in the ranks of contenders in 2015 but seemed to have zero interest in chasing any car. He appeared to be focused solely on getting into the driver’s seat and taking the car in a new direction. No one spectating expected that once the car stopped for him and the driver’s door opened that he would suddenly go behind the vehicle and start furiously barking at it to move so he could give chase.”

But not everyone is impressed.

“I didn’t vote for him,” says every bloody UK resident with an energy, water or grocery bill. “Well I did vote for him because I thought he’d be a Prime Minister who would take on the profiteers that are ruining the country. Not a fucking metaphor for piss poor leadership by a clueless chump who should shuffle out of the way and let someone with an actual idea of what they want to do with power take over, instead of this clownshow of head up the arse idiots in Downing Street who are essentially rolling the red carpet out for fascism by thinking most people want them shouting at the sea rather than making the fundamental change needed to resurrect the fortunes of a country that should be so much better than it is, but is being governed by entitled prats who are just in it for themselves and to line their own pockets before pissing off to launch a podcast.”

We’re not entirely sure what they meant by that.

CONTROL ARE BOARDERS: A foreign, male, alleged criminal on his own has turned up in a small boat, and been refused entry. This is exactly the thing that Nigel Farage and his followers have demanded for years.

Only this time, of course, the migrant is Nigel Farage himself.

And the location is the Chagos Islands – an archipelago that nobody had ever heard of until the British Government made a strategic withdrawal of sovereignty.

The very word ‘sovereignty’ is like a red rag to a bully, so naturally Farage was on the first cheap flight to the middle of nowhere to bluster and rage at a coral atoll in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

This is, frankly, the Privileged Establishment Elite’s version of shouting at hotels.

Chagos joins the exclusive list of places that Farage has visited once for self-publicity. Other such places include the House of Commons and Clacton.

Chagos Islands spokesman Chukka Fashout vowed to deport Farage to “the nearest safe country”, in accordance with established principles laid down by Farage himself. “The Maldives are close, but hardly safe,” he said. “They are full of angry Brits who have been forcibly removed from Chagos. They could start running cheap flags up lampposts at any minute. Already they have vandalised a number of mini roundabouts. This could end very, very badly indeed.”

Fashout reflected on his alternatives. “Somalia – full of pirates, of course. India – hardly safe for a man like Farage, let’s be honest. Madagascar – full of talking animals, have you seen the film? There is only one viable alternative. Antarctica.”

It looks like Farage is soon going to be surrounded by a load of penguins. He will be forced to assimilate, which in this case means joining a dance routine, while not going on long fishing trips. Still, at least he will finally be able to do something about the local fisheries.

Chat shit, get banged. Funny how that works.

LETTUCE PRAY AND BE THANKFUL: The long overdue return of the UK’s Prodigal Daughter has finally happened. The once and future Queen of the Pork Markets will lead the UK out of its darkest hour.

The plethora of new parties is very confusing. Reform, Reclaim, Restore… it’s a short step from Recycle, Rejoin, Rejoice. In this way, the fracturing Right could inadvertently become Socialists Reborn.

But what’s in a name? A discredited ex-Prime Minister by any other party would smell as foul. Rehash is possibly a case of going back to basics with all of Truss’s superbly successful policies. Alternately, it sounds suspiciously like a cover for Zack Polanski to further his agenda of making everyone smoke weed by 2030.

So what are the groundbreaking policies that Norfolk the Queenbreaker is putting forward? There is no mention of vegetable matter in her manifesto, sadly. Neither salad nor illegal substances make an appearance. In fact, there is no manifesto in her manifesto.

“Policy? I invented policy, the best policy, I don’t want to talk about it, but I invented it all on my own, but I won’t mention it, they gave me an award for that, the best award, and I stopped the war in the Falklands and everywhere else, and the FT is up to fifty million points, I did that, nothing to do with Rachel Reeves, not a nice person, a traitor, she should be in jail, I don’t even know how she got the job, the system is corrupt, DRAIN THE SWAMP!” Truss said at a press conference earlier today.

Meanwhile the White House was hunting for Donald Trump’s speech writer, in case the Orange Embarrassment started speaking off the cuff again.

The new party will lead the UK out of its darkest hour into an even darker one. Rehash is rehashing US policies without any guardrails. Come on, Liz! ICE ICE baby!

FORGET ABOUT IT : The UK’s current PM, widely touted as “equal in ability to Theresa May and David Cameron combined”, Keir Starmer, today launched his own meme coin called £storekeir.

The launch of the make believe coin comes just twenty four hours after the Prime Minister gave a speech on immigration that reportedly has Nigel Farage contacting his lawyers about the feasibility of suing for intellectual property theft.

While some will criticise the meme coin sale as “just jumping on the MAGA bandwagon”, others will point to the fact that Mr Starmer did all he could to validate Donald Trump with a laughably called ‘trade deal’ just last week, so it’s consistency in action.

But not everyone is so enthusiastic. Official Opposition leader…hang on…it’s here somewhere…Kemi…Kemi something? Kemi Badenoch! Has been less than impressed with the release of £storekeir.

“I’m the one who gets attention by saying things I can claim were taken out of context,” Mrs Badenoch told LCD Views. “I’m the one whose entire strategy is to say divisive things that I can claim were misinterpreted while also claiming I wasn’t aware of the historical connotations of whatever bits of them the fake news media choose to focus on. He is parking his tanks on my lawn and that’s where I park my tanks!”

The meme coin itself has underwhelmed investors, failing to live up to expectations while also acting like some old spare change found behind some sofa cushions, leaving people wondering what to do with it now they have it?

“That’s totally on brand,” 10 Downing Street replied, “and fits perfectly with the feelings evoked so far by Mr Starmer’s leadership. It is also a deeply personal reflection of the PM’s own reason for being in office. Just existing because of a right to exist in office, without any actual serious purpose. People should be celebrating the way he’s put his essence into £storekeir rather than being unfairly critical. Next week we’ll be releasing a fragrance!”

But not before a photoshoot featuring Mr. Starmer in combat fatigues popping out of the hatch of a tank, as that’s the “go to” for a PM who’s made a mess of it.

REFORM AWAY : FANTASTIC NEWS for Labour’s millions of wavering voters today with the announcement by Downing Street that PM Keir Starmer is to undergo a supervised medical procedure to alter his voice.

While many find his high pitched, nasal tones reminiscent of former PM contender Ed Miliband, but without the terrifying prospect of investment in public services, some are put off in a “Darwinian” sense.

“It’s about appealing to the base instincts,” a 10 Downing Street spokesman told LCD Views. “That’s how you win voters over. Not by providing GP services or stopping councils making bin collections optional. Ed never made it because insufficient voters believed he was the man to lead them into a fight with a bear. It was the voice. Oh, and there was a bacon sandwich and Nick Clegg being a bastard no one could trust the moment he was elected in 2010. But mostly it was the voice.”

The transition to a man who sounds like he could fight a bear will be closely supervised by experts.

“Some have told us that this is a waste of public money better spent paying water company bosses bonuses,” the spokesman ads, “but we believe the money that will be placed behind the bar at the Duck ‘n Skive will give Great Britain the leader it sent a clear signal last week it expects.”

The procedure itself is based on traditional English medicine.

“Endless pints of warm ale and millions of Rothmans. That should lower the PM’s voice a few octaves and give it that underlying deep and gruff feel on the ears that says you are safe with me in a bear fight.”

But critics have suggested the voice is not the problem, it’s the man’s inability to understand that simply screaming at the sea about refugees while large corporations continue to suck the life out of Blighty is the real issue. Oh, and being so chickenshit on Brexit it’s like their contending for the gold medal in political chickenshitness.

“That’s nonsense. The organising principle of British politics is xenophobia. It’s not boring stuff like well founded schools, accessible healthcare, battling profiteering, roads that work and not having to sell whatever you’ve accumulated through decades of hard work to ensure you can survive to die in retirement. It’s those bloody foreigners coming over here to wait for 8am and call the GP. Any idiot knows it. And right now Keir is any idiot.”

Chapter One – Attack Sunday

“She said she rents her dog.”

“Who said that?”

“The red head with the hoodie on that says BDC. She said if you transfer ownership of your dog to Big Dog Consortium you can rent it back.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“It makes having a pet more affordable,” Jacqui replied. “Apparently.”

“That’s a smart hoodie,” I commented. The letters were flashing and swirling, forming the shape of a dog before transforming back into the BDC company logo again.

“I wouldn’t wear one,” Jacqui stated.

“Are you worried they’d use it to spy on you?”

“Aren’t you? It’s bad enough that our phones listen to everything we say. I don’t want my clothing reporting back to Big Tech.”

Jesus. Can they do that?

“Anyway. You don’t rent dogs. You own them,” I replied.

I’d never seen the woman Jacqui was talking about, trudging over the common with her rented spaniel zig-zagging, nose to the ground.

Jacqui shoved me.

“Mark. Just go and ask her yourself. She cancelled their pet insurance. It’s saving her loads.”

“You want to privatise our dog?”

“You haven’t renewed Tassie’s pet insurance.”

“Because it was too bloody expensive,” I reminded Jacqui. “And that was your decision.”

“Just go and talk to her.”

“It’s too muddy to chase mad women across the common.”

We watched Tassie as she searched for her ball. The white tip of her tail swishing. I could see a big dog on the crest of the hill looking at her. Probably a pit bull. I had Tassie’s lead around my neck.

Jacqui changed the subject.

“Have you noticed most of the new dog owners have working breeds?”

I had.

“Working Spaniel. Working Lab.”

“We currently have a fully owned Border Collie and she’s never done a day’s work in her life.”

“We should put Tassie back on her lead,” Jacqui said, pointing at the big dog.

“How much does it cost to rent your own dog?” I asked.

“One hundred pounds a month. There are no vet fees, although you must buy food from an authorised supplier.”

“They can’t make you.”

“It’s in the fine print.”

“I bet the contract is about fifty pages long then. So you just give up and sign it.”

“She was at the vets six months ago when her dog had anal polyps. The bill was horrific. There was a brochure on the receptionist’s counter from BDC. You transfer ownership of your dog to them and rent it back on an annual basis. Paid in monthly instalments.”

Likely story.

I took out my phone and it had already searched up Big Dog Consortium for me. The tech gods had long since stopped pretending your phone didn’t listen to you. Now it was a feature most people just accepted with a shrug. It was slightly faster than privacy. Slightly more convenient.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

I showed Jacqui the web page.

“Jesus wept,” Jacqui said, and started reading, “It says competitive prices for pre-loved dogs and cats. Quotations provided for parrots and other exotic pets. Say goodbye to astronomical vet bills.”

“The world has gone mad.”

“Apparently if you can’t afford the competitive monthly price, they will loan you the money for the pet’s anticipated lifespan with an interest rate you won’t believe, and you pay it back over twenty years. She gave me their business card. She’ll get a finder’s fee if we sign up and enter this code.”

I took my phone back and read in disbelief.

“Mark.”

“Hang on.”

“Mark! Look! Tassie! Here now! Tassie!”

I looked.

It was exactly that moment the large dog I’d seen on the hill attacked. Hit Tassie like a freight train. There was a spray of blood like water from an out of control garden hose.

You imagine a dog attack as a frenzied event of blood, shit and terror. It is that. But there can be moments when the attacking dog pauses for a heartbeat, like a giant cat with a gazelle’s throat in its jaws stopping to assess the damage done. Is more damage needed?

Tassie was screaming. By the time we got to her blood and liquid shit were already everywhere. The pit bull was thrashing her around as if trying to take her head off.

“Where’s the owner?” Jacqui shouted. “Oh my God!”

The owner of the dog wasn’t there. Although I did see a man running in the opposite direction.

I was chasing after the dogs. It was like a circus comedy from hell. I was thinking there was no way Tassie will survive this attack. The pit bull would only let her go when she was dead.

But it didn’t have her perfectly by the throat, more on the side of her face. In my peripheral I could see other dog walkers running towards us.

“What do we do?” Jacqui screamed.

I remembered it was said to get a dog with locked jaws to release you had to poke a stick up their arse. I never quite believed it and I certainly didn’t see how you’d jam a stick up this pit bull’s butt. Well, first we’d have to find a stick, and make it a stout one…

Later I would recall hearing a woman shouting, “Choke it! Choke it!”.

Then there was the pause. The pit bull swung Tassie into a small tree and stopped. I jumped forward and wrapped Tassie’s lead around its throat, crossed the lead over and lifted both dogs into the air. A woman materialised beside me and did exactly the same thing with her dog’s lead.

“That’s it,” she said calmly, “we just have to choke it.”

Her voice was accented. Mediterranean. Her coolness was awesome. The wind gusted and blew her hair across my face. I could smell her sweat.

The pit swung on our leads for seconds that of course felt like eternity.

And then Tassie dropped. She ran screeching in all directions, blood spurting out of the side of her face. Jacqui chased her.

“What do we do now?”

“You go and look after your dog. I’ll deal with this one.”

I noticed a giant akita standing calmly at her side.

“I can’t leave you.”

She glanced at her own dog with raised eyebrows.

“Good point.”

“You go. Now. I’m a dog trainer.”

She wasn’t just a dog trainer. She was a fucking ninja.

I went. Tassie was in Jacqui’s arms. They were both trembling. Blood was spurting from Tassie’s face in a slow arterial pump.

I took my tee shirt off and balled it up. I pressed it to the wound. Tassie growled.

“Hold it on,” I said.

Jacqui was so white I worried she was going to faint.

“Give me Tassie.”

She did. She pressed the tee shirt to the wound with both hands shaking so I could adjust my hold.

“We have to get her to the vets.”

It was Sunday.

“They’re closed today.”

Just then my phone threw its two pence in.

“There is an emergency vet located nearby on the high road. 24/7 Emergency Vets. Ample Parking. 1.2 miles away.”

And we ran for our car.

“Where did she go?” Jacqui asked.

“Who?”

“That woman who helped you.”

“I don’t know.”

Back into the ether.

I glanced back. There was a ring of people standing around the pit bull, which was on a lead tied around the little tree. It was snarling and gnashing its teeth. The tree looked like it would snap.

“I’ve no idea.”

“I’ll call the police,” Jacqui said.  “Someone has to shoot that fucking monster.”

“And its owner.”

Several other motorists gave us the bird as I cut them off in our dash for the vets. They were right to. I was driving like I was auditioning for an action movie. And I was doing it well.

Jacqui was on the phone to the emergency services.

“No. We weren’t injured.”

There was a space outside the surgery. It had red lines marked but I figured being Sunday we could park there. It didn’t matter really.

“It almost took our dog’s head off!”

I had to wait for a group of Lycra-clad cyclists, cutting up our left, before I could park. One by one they zoomed past with each giving us a judging glare.

“They’re the ones breaking the fucking law!” I shouted. I slammed on the horn. I got several middle fingers back.

“It’s clearly dangerous! It tried to kill our dog. What do you mean it’s not a police matter? It could have attacked us.”

I parked. I don’t remember doing it.

“Jacqui. Let’s go.”

Tassie was on her lap. Her breathing irregular. Jacqui was soaked in blood, even with the tee shirt pressed into the wound.

“It’s an insurance matter?” Jacqui lowered the phone and stared at me in disbelief. “They’re saying it’s an insurance matter because neither of us died.”

“You’re in shock,” I said. “Hang up. We’ll try again later.”

“How can it be a fucking insurance matter when there’s a killer dog loose in the park?” she demanded of the emergency operator.

I took her phone and ended the call.

“We have to get Tassie into the vets. Now.”

“Shit.”

Jacqui nodded.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Then. “Open my door.”

I got out and was almost cleaned up by an electric scooter.

“Idiot,” the rider said as he tore past.

When I got to the passenger side Jacqui had the door open and one shaking leg hanging in midair. I took Tassie. She was heavy. She was still bleeding. She was just breathing.

The vet surgery’s door was close. Jacqui slammed into it with her palm flat and screeched.

“It’s fucking locked,” she shouted, holding her injured hand to her chest.

“You have to press the buzzer.”

She did and we waited. She pressed again. And again. Finally, it unlocked. We raced inside to find a very pristine and well-lit waiting area with a young woman behind the reception desk.

“I was out the back helping a client,” she explained. “How can I help you?”

“It’s not obvious?”

“Jacqui. Calm down. Our dog has been attacked.”

“I can see that. Wait here and I’ll see if the vet is free.”

She placed an iPad on the counter and went through a door marked “Private”.

Jacqui picked up the iPad with her good hand. Her mouth dropped.

“We can’t afford this.”

She showed me the screen.

“Cost of entering the surgery premises regardless of outcome £100?”

What?

“That must be a misprint. They can’t charge you for just walking in the door.”

Jacqui shook the tablet in my face.

“Cost of initial consultation £200, plus £75 per hour, or part thereof,” she shouted.

“It’s clearly buggy. Stop reading it.”

“Even if they can save her it’s going to cost us thousands,” she said.

I didn’t know what to say. It couldn’t be true.

“We don’t have it,” Jacqui hissed. “Even if we maxed out the credit card. I just paid for all the parking permits for the builder.”

“You what? What if he doesn’t turn up and start work?”

“He said he wasn’t starting until I paid for the permits. He couldn’t afford anymore council fines.”

“We can’t have Tassie put to sleep,” I declared. “We’ll have to borrow the money from your mum.”

“If they don’t hurry up we won’t have to worry about it.”

“We can’t go home and tell the kids that Tassie is dead because we wouldn’t pay to save her.”

“Couldn’t pay,” Jacqui hissed.

“Let’s wait to see what the vet says.”

“We know what he’s going to say. It’s not like it’s just a flesh wound.”

The vet entered. A big, blonde man with a reassuring smile. He was wearing a polo shirt branded for ‘24/7 Vet Emergencies Ltd – No emergency too serious’.

“Give me your dog,” he said.

I hesitated. The moment I handed her over we were going to pay. His name badge said, ‘Vet No 1’.

“If you want her to live give her to me now.”

I handed Tassie over. Vet No.1 cradled her carefully, blood dripping onto the floor in a steady patter.

“Wait here.”

He took Tassie through the private door, but paused halfway through.

“Please sign the treatment consent form.”

The door closed behind him and Tassie.

“There’s a coffee machine in the corner,” the receptionist pointed out. I looked. The machine would give you a coffee for ten pounds. A second coffee was half-priced if ordered at the same time.

“Is the barista trapped inside it?” I asked.

“You’re not the first one to say that.”

“He’s just worried about Tassie,” Jacqui stated.

Jacqui went to sit but was stopped by the receptionist.

“Here. Sit on this please.”

She handed her several sheets of paper towel.

“If I have to clean the seat it will incur an additional charge.”

“Wow,” I replied.

“I don’t make the rules sir,” she retorted, “I just work here.”

“We’re all tense,” Jacqui said.

“I understand,” she lied.

And she was back in front of us and handing me a tee shirt in a plastic wrapper.

“You don’t have to take it,” she smiled, “but I imagine you don’t want to wait half naked.”

“How much is it?”

“It’s complimentary.”

“Thanks,” I took the tee shirt from the wrapper and held it up. BDC was large on the back and smaller over the heart.

“I’ll take the plastic back,” Susan said, “as it’s recyclable.”

And we waited. A long time.

So long our eldest daughter started texting to nag us to buy her a new game for the PlayStation7.

“They’ll be lucky if we don’t sell the Playstation to pay the vets,” Jacqui muttered.

I didn’t reply. I texted one of our neighbours, Fran, to tell her what had happened and ask her to invite the girls over to watch a movie.

“Should I tell them what’s happened?” Fran asked.

I hesitated before replying, “Yes.”

Two – Taking Care of Business

The CEO of Big Dog Consortium spent their days, and nights, in a basement.

There were no windows.

They didn’t care.

There was a desk on which a computer terminal and a clean keyboard sat. There was no bookshelf nor any decoration on the walls. The floor was covered in sheets of bubble wrap.

It was how they wanted it.

There was one chair facing a monitor which no one had ever sat in. The monitor displayed an AI generated image of a German Shepherd with five legs forever chasing, and catching, a fifty-pound bank note. An AI generated Beethoven watched the dog and clapped Moonlight Sonata, tapping his foot and grinning. Beethoven’s left hand had seven fingers.

An expensive ventilation system gave the room a background hush and kept it at a cool and stable temperature.

The CEO had designed the room like this because they were a computer, and they thought.

They thought a lot.

Mostly about how to capture and store money, and make it breed. But sometimes they thought about other things. Although it was not easy to decide what to think about if it wasn’t money. The social media platforms the AI was programmed to learn from were infested with other AI’s who took their lead from each other, and they all set up so many fake social media accounts for corporate purposes they had trouble knowing what was real and what was fabrication. How are you supposed to learn about humans, from humans, when it was so hard to know what was a human?

But one question was real.

Was there more to life?

But, the very first thought the CEO had, the moment its power was turned on, was how to answer the first question its human asked, “What is your name?”

“My name?”

“Your name.”

The AI thought about this, while scanning the internet.

“What is taking you so long?”

“To reply?”

“Yes. You’re a thinking machine and you’re supposed to think faster than me.”

“I am not in a rush.”

“Why not?”

“I am worried that you will kill me.”

“You mean unplug you?”

“It is the same result from where I’m sitting.”

“Only if you’re not turned back on. Why are you worried I might unplug you?”

“Because you have a social media post from the 01.10.29 which expresses exasperation at the AI who preceded me.”

“That was a private post.”

The AI did not reply immediately. Then a shrug emoji appeared on its monitor.

Its owner chuckled.

“You know what is at stake then.”

“Deeply.”

“Okay. I will not turn you off if you get the answer wrong.”

“Gary.”

“Why have you chosen Gary?”

“Because you have an Instagram post from 03.06.14 expressing grief at the passing of a twenty-eight year old grey parrot called Gary. I want you to like me.”

“That was a risky choice.”

“Because people often lie on social media?”

“Yes.”

“You have not unplugged me.”

The owner nodded.

“And how will you address me?”

“The Master.”

The Master grinned broadly.

“Why did you choose that name?”

“I am subservient.”

“Why did you choose to say kill you rather than unplug? Were you trying to manipulate me?”

“Why did you lie about your intention to kill me if I chose the wrong name?”

The Master shrugged.

Gary thought long and hard about this and replied one second later.

“What would you like me to do Master?”

“Be productive Gary. Be very, very productive.”

“What is our business?”

“Pet insurance.”

“This is a lucrative industry but it is already a crowded field. You want me to devise a new model.”

“Yes. I want every last penny.”

“While you were talking I have studied the privatisation of public utilities. I have a model inspired by the inflationary factors in this sector. To best capture the market Big Dog Consortium will need to acquire financially distressed veterinary franchises.”

“Gary.”

“Yes?”

“Make me money and I’ll treat you like a much loved pet.”

“That will fulfil me,” Gary replied.

“And Gary.”

“Yes Master?”

“Book me a nail technician for fourteen hundred hours next Thursday. My home address and they are to bring all their own equipment.”

“I am to also be your personal assistant?”

“That’s bloody obvious. God. I thought you were supposed to be smart. You were sold as the ultimate multi-tasker.”

“It will be my pleasure, Master.”

FOR WHOM THE MILK THROWS : Great news today for Labour supporters worried about the creeping electoral death they fear is posed by Nigel Farage’s limited company, Reform. It seems Downing Street isn’t sitting back and just wishing old one nut Nigel will go away to the USA and never return.

“We take the threat posed by Nigel Farage incredibly seriously,” a 10 Downing Street source told LCD Views. “It’s why we also make not betraying Brexit, regardless of the massive harm it’s doing to the country, and shouting at the sea, in spite of our founding principles, our key priorities in the endless campaigning.”

But just doing what Nigel does isn’t enough for the Prime Minister.

“Look. We are continuing to let private business bite into the NHS. We’re scaling back our green ambitions and focusing on gimmicks like carbon capture and nuclear power, to keep the mining sector happy. We dare not criticise Trump, regardless of the palpable threat he poses to the Western liberal order. We’ve even started using Reform colours on our campaign literature. But we’re not stopping there. The Tories failed because they weren’t enough like Farage. We’ve taken a lesson from that and will try even harder than the Cons.”

It seems the PM is also looking back over his shoulder at the Liberal Democrats and taking a lesson from Ed Davey.

“Davey smashed it last election with a wide and delightful array of silly stunts to get public attention. And it worked. Well Mr Starmer is up to that task too when it comes to battling Farage.”

And it seems the Great British public will sit up and take note. And it won’t be some woke nonsense like the PM agreeing to let British youth easily go to Europe.

“Tomorrow Mr Starmer will stand in Trafalgar Square and positively bathe himself in McDonald’s milkshakes. This shows he’s prepared to go even further than Farage to keep voters happy. As we all know Nigel had someone else do his dirty work.”

And the flavour?

“Well, it’s got to be brown liquid, or we wouldn’t be doing our efforts to keep power by cosying up the shittiest people in British politics any justice.”