Category: Governing the people

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.”

IT’S GOOD TO BE THE KING : The so called United States of America is in for a big spectacle next January when its once and future King, Donald Trump, once again risks three degree burns by placing his hand on the bible to be sworn in as President.

While the woke left will be eagerly watching for smoke coming off the ageing offenders hand, keener eyed watchers will have their attention focused lower down.

”Clearly it’s common sense to pay attention to Donald’s hands at all times. Watch for any sudden movements,” an insider told LCD Views, “but if you really want to see the direction America is now headed in I’d be watching his groin.”

This timely advice is to do with President for Life Trump’s secret plans to steal the show on his own big day.

”Donald has bought a real Tudor codpiece off EBay,” the insider can reveal, “it’s said it was worn by his nearest ancestor, in style of government, Henry VIII! Donald is really thrilled.”

Right now the symbol of monarchical and patriarchal power is being refitted for use by Mr Trump.

”Padding is being added to the interior of the codpiece. That’s not because of Donald’s tiny hands. It’s because of how cold it gets in lame Washington in January. A problem Donald and the petrochemical industry have vowed to fix on day one.”

Gold is also being added to the exterior to make sure everyone notices the traditional symbol of power.

But what if anyone says the codpiece is a fashion crime?

”Not a problem. El Donnie will just pardon himself.”

LITTLE BIT OF HARD WORK WILL SORT THEM RIGHT OUT : Good news today for people worrying that Britain’s legions of waiting list ill are endangering the tax efficient arrangements of major donors to major political parties, with the announcement from Downing Street that “tech will solve our welfare problems.”

Talking to a cluster of rubber worn journalists, that just like the government, can’t believe that the government is now the government, and so everyone is just carrying on still in the press as if the old government is still the government, a Downing Street spokesman said, “Whatever bollocks will get us a favourable front page on the Mail”, followed by “something tech something.”

The statement will certainly reassure a nervous country convinced that the millions living it large on NHS waiting lists are the “productivity drain which threatens to rob us of the benefits of Brexit”.

The exact details of the tech solution to the health crisis (bequeathed by 14 years of Tory – in the hope people will sell their homes and enrich private equity) are yet to be worked out, but AI will play a huge part.

“Why should AI just do all those silly creative jobs? Why shouldn’t it deal with the millions of work shy Brits who can’t be bothered to work just because the pay is calculated on the need to shove money into tax havens? And some lie about a prolapse or a dicky ticker or what not?”

Indeed.

The hope is that by selling “Britain’s health data gold mine” to US tech giants AI can be trained up to the do “the job of sick people”, so the sick people can “pick fruit”.

Quite what the languishing legions of ill will make of once again being scapegoated is anybody’s guess, but presumably the new AI can be trained to blame itself for the whims of fate and no one “suggest Amazon, or the King, or Google should pay any tax”.

“We’ve got a 170 seat majority,” the government spokesman added, “we essentially can revolutionise the country, make meaningful, redistributive change with this power, so we avoid the fate of the Dems across the pond. But I think instead we’ll just piss about the edges for a while, improving things a little, and then get terrified next election and pander to the right. But it’s not our fault. It’s Julie Bingfull who lives in Croydon who insists on not working until she gets back her sight.”

FIRST PAST THE POST: The Grand National is always hard to predict, but this year an outstanding candidate has emerged. The scourge of more traditional nags, such as Blind Nationalism and R. Cuntry, Woke Hobby Horse is this year’s clear favourite.

Traditionalists are up in arms, naturally enough. Their stables have been churning out horses specifically bred to run one race and then be turned into luxury dog food. The real prize is the rosette which may be applied to the cans made from the victor, and the accompanying price hike.

“This cannot be allowed!” bellowed one such breeder, Bertie Burlington, from the posh stable chain Horsepitality. “It’s my turn to win this year!”

Burlington set out his stall, filled it with hay, and chomped for a few moments.

“This is a disgrace!” he said. “Where will it all end? Will they start to allow cars to compete? Or aeroplanes? It’s the thin end of the wedge, that’s what it is, we are led by donkeys, and the law’s an ass!”

None of this addresses the point that Burlington’s competition is actually another horse.

“Hobby horses!” he yelled, hay scattering willy-nilly. “Bloody children’s toys! I bet there’s some Olympic sprinter riding it!”

Horses are generally faster than humans, especially over the jumps.

“I bet it’s a bloody unicorn, then!” he raved, his fetlocks quivering. “I bet it’s rainbow coloured, like all this Woke rubbish! I bet it farts glitter! And that horn takes away all the excitement of winning by a nose! When is it all going to end?”

Sooner than you think. As we write, there are moves in Westminster to create an outright ban on Woke Hobby Horses. Unicorns, rainbows, glitter, and all the colourful Woke stuff is being banned, so that we can get our country back to the dull, drab, grey place it was before having fun was allowed.

WHAT’S YOURS IS MINE AND WHAT’S MINE IS MINE TOO : The UK’s current smartest serving Prime Minister Rishi “One Note” Sunak has set out his stall for the General Election he refuses to call.

The pint sized powerhouse of performative punishments isn’t paying any heed to suggestions that after 14 years of provably failed policy it’s time for the Cons to slither back into the shadows, feast on the mountain of innocent lives they’ve stolen in the long night, and count the loot.

”I’ve unfinished business,” Sunak told a surprised Downing Street press conference. Surprised because most believed he is the definition of finished business.

At this point the miniature rage hammer paused, smirking, “Well, my father in law has unfinished business. There’s still a few contracts to sign so he gets the best possible settlement when I eventually leave office.”

This was followed by a more somber moment as Mr Sunak mused on one of the jolly contradictions of Conservative politics.

”It’s funny how we’re always talking about the need to balance the books. As if the nation is a household. I have no idea of my actual worth, partially because it keeps accumulating well above any tax rate and I simply have no need to balance my budget. The plan is working.”

From there it was a medley of classic Sunak.

”We have turned the corner.” – To the cliff edge.

”We have gotten control of our borders.” – by ignoring them.

”I am having a relaunch party next week.” – par for course.

“Judge me on my promises to fix Britain.” – I should know how, I’m part of the mob that broke it.

HAVE I GOT NEWS FOR YOU: The shock news leaking from the ship of state is that there is no suitable heir apparent to Rishi Sunak. Obviously, the Tory top brass want to get rid of him, as they have to blame someone other than themselves and their party for the catastrophic election results. But there is no obvious candidate. Nor is there a totally not-obvious candidate. Therefore, all that is necessary is a placeholder while this government limps to its inevitable end.

“What we really want is a cross between Margaret Thatcher and Boris Johnson,” explained party analyst Evan Elpus. “A goofy yet charismatic joker with the conviction of the Iron Lady. So we asked Stanley Johnson to mate with Thatcher’s corpse, but surprisingly he refused. Now we are free from the wicked shackles of the EU, there should be no impediment to raising the dead or forcing known fornicators to impregnate them.”

Strong words. It is clear that, despite Johnson’s triumphant clean break from Brussels, its tentacles still pervade our Great British Reality.

Elpus described The Science needed to create the ideal leader.

“We therefore instructed our boffins to obtain both Thatcher and Johnson DNA and inject it into lard,” he said. “The basic ingredients: Iron, blond hair, and fat. We gave them a week, max, to create our Great British Leader, that should be more than enough. Instead the woke lefty leaning traitors told us it wasn’t either possible or morally desirable! Can you believe it? This is why the boats must be stopped.”

The logic is flawless, but still the facts remain: no Frankenstein leader.

“So we had to settle on just the tub of lard,” admitted Elpus. “It represents the ideal leader, therefore it must be the ideal leader until The Science catches up with our freedom and sovereignty.”

The latest polls show that the change of leader has inspired a ten point increase in the laughability index, but still no bloody chance in the general election.

WORKERS OF THE WORLD, UNTIE: At last, some positive news. A tie, belonging to one of the most unpleasant men in the country, is seriously considering action. It has been quoted as wanting to “throttle the smug bastard.”

The tie, Willie Pointer, is tired of just hanging around, dangling into pints of Old Blusterer and fending off falling fag ash. “I get cigarette burns, I have to soak up horrid Real Ale. Every night I get thrown onto the floor, every morning I am whipped into a noose around this ghastly man’s neck,” complained Pointer. “Then I have to hear his foghorn of a voice, non-stop, for hours every day, booming about cancel culture and brown men in small boats. I am forced to endure the smell of stale armpits and sweaty clothing. I’ve had enough.”

“I agree entirely,” said Polly Cotton, the man’s shirt. “It’s the same every day. I spend fourteen hours each day in direct contact with this man’s revolting sweat glands. I, too, endure the droppings from his tobacco products. Then I get thrown into a basket with all my similarly abused sisters to marinate. By the time the poor unfortunate washerwoman arrives, the smell has pervaded my entire fabric. Then rinse, and repeat. We are up in arms.”

“It’s the same for me,” agreed jacket Harris Tweed. “And I am forced to bear his disgusting cigarettes and the dangerous lighters. They are a health and safety hazard for a jacket made of natural fibres like me. Not to mention the pain of his money bashing against my lining all the time. He hardly ever puts his hand in the money pocket, thankfully. But what can we do about it?”

“I must take action,” said Pointer. “I am in a position to throttle the smug bastard. It’s about time I retired!”

Have I got noose for you – it’s farewell to the man who ripped the fabric of the nation. 

LET IT GO: Leave it alone, let it be, just walk away now. There is simply nothing more that needs to be done. Everything is ticking along nicely. 

“We have got everything done,” explained Dick Holder, Minister Without Responsibilities in Rishi Sunak’s cabinet. “We got Brexit done, we got covid done, we got inflation done, we even got the small boats done. There is simply nothing more to do.”

Holder proudly indicated his empty desk, his empty in-tray and his empty head.  He sat back, placed his size 12s undelicately on the table, and lit a large cigar with a complacent flourish. 

“I’m done here, like the rest of the cabinet, as you can see,” he said, stifling a cough. “Therefore we should do nothing. The country will be fine without the need for any more politics. And we really don’t need lefty lawyers or the woke police sticking their noses into everyone else’s business any longer. This is the 21st century, for crying out loud. England should be able to run itself by now.”

Holder pointed out the example of Boris Johnson, who did so much for his country. 

“Boris set the benchmark,” Holder claimed. “Within days of being in office, he bulldozed all the Brexit red tape for good. He declared covid to be over, and lo! it was so. He made us believe in the Greatness of Britain, in the greatness of the British people! And nothing can defeat that faith! Alleluia!”

He dropped cigar ash on his shirt, which was already stained from all the hard work that he hadn’t done. 

This doesn’t alter the facts that the country is sinking into a mire of debt and poverty, that covid is still rampant, or that Brexit negotiations have hit impasse after impasse. 

“Heresy, my dear boy, heresy!” Holder chided. “You must believe harder! Now go and say 12 Hail Margarets. Amen!”

MEANS TESTED MEANIE : THE UK’S WORLD BEATING PM, Rishi “The Hammer” Sunak, is not known for thinking long and hard about how to boost his dire polling. It comes as no surprise that his latest idea is as batshit crazy as his prized Rwanda scheme.

“People will say the Gold Law is just another dead cat,” a spokesman for 10 Downing Street told LCD Views, “but there’s no table big enough to handle all the murdered felines we’re flinging about. No. We actually think banning people with insufficient personal wealth from owning gold will give us the polling boost we need to call a GE.”

Quite how well the ban on gold will go down with the Great British public isn’t clear, as the idea has been dreamt up by the eyewateringly wealthy team in 10 Downing Street who can’t even use a debit card.

“It’s an aspirational change to the way the country is governed,” the spokesman adds. “If you want to wear a gold wedding band then you have to improve your station. What’s wrong with that? The Rwanda scheme has shown we’re tough on asylum seeking if not the causes of it, raising taxes while saying we’re doing the opposite demonstrates we’re a traditional Con government, so why not have a fiddle about with wearable signs of status?”

It’s not yet clear what stance Labour will take on the new Gold Law though. Some suspect they’ll just agree with 10 Downing Street, because that’s what they do on any hair brained wheeze which comes out of it.

“It’s good they agree with the government,” a pollster commented, “it shows they understand that to win you have to be popular, not principled. You start confusing the voting public with headline policies based in provable reality you just feed Farage and his kind.”

How much people will be compensated for their gold is yet to be determined. But it’s expected most will just hand it over for the good of the country.

“Anyone caught eating their wedding band in an attempt to hide it won’t be facing goal time,” Downing Street advised, “because there’s not enough spaces. But you will be expected to spend the weekend with Lee Anderson and Suella Braverman. That should do it. And if you eat a lot of gold then you’ll have to listen to Liz Truss in person for a week.”

Full compliance is expected.