Category: Governing the people

The flaccid and ineffectual performance of the UK government is the result of doping, according to the NHS. MPs of all parties have overdosed on testosterone.

“It’s down to the huge amounts of bollocks,” explained senior consultant Paris Ettamol. “Effectively they’ve drugged themselves. They have swallowed the bollocks uncritically, and the surplus testosterone has led to many surprisingly limp showings.”

But the bollocks has been disseminated widely, through the press, broadcast and social media. Is there any risk to the public?

“It leads directly to fascism,” declared Dr Ettamol. “It’s too much of a good thing. Many men, having suffered flop after flop, get angry. They take out their impotent rage upon blameless, virile, incomers.”

What about women? What effect does the testosterone have on them?

“Look at the rise of women in prominent positions,” Dr Ettamol remarked. “May, Sturgeon, Foster. That bearded lady who won Eurovision, and many more, myself included. It’s unfortunate that I need to shave daily, though.”

There was a scandal, once, about oestrogen in the water supply. Doesn’t the testosterone cancel it out?

“Not at all,” countered Dr Ettamol. “Both have a positive impact upon women, but a negative impact upon men. Women have gained equal rights, equal pay, control over their bodies. What have men gained? Moobs!”

“Men are Goldilocks creatures,” she continued. “The balance must be just right for them to be able to perform properly. This is why our male politicians have, almost universally, refused to stand up and be counted.”

Is doping a feminist conspiracy, then?

“No, just a cock-up,” she replied, sadly.

The official position is that there is no problem, but if there were, it would be the EU’s fault.

Dr Ettamol has some more constructive advice. “Don’t let the bollocks get you down. Never mind the bollocks. Man up, if you still can.”

No wonder Viagra is now available over the counter.

Forget about a bad deal. No deal at all is the best for… well, Jacob Rees-Mogg, if not Britain.

The man himself spoke to LCD Views through an interpreter who specialises in Elizabethan English.

“Put it this way,” purred Moggy. “I am actually reasonably well off. This is despite the restrictions that are placed upon reckless pursuit of profit by any means possible. I am just an ordinary Englishman. What’s good for me is good for every other ordinary Englishman.”

Impeccable logic, but as usual a small flaw or two, old chap. For example, restrictions are for the common good.

“Restrictions are for the common man!” Rees-Mogg retorted. “The drones, the serfs, the quasi-slave class. It is for their own good. It prevents them from rising above their station. They must always work hard, so that the ordinary English gentleman is free to behave in a manner appropriate to his status!”

Which is…

“Pish! Tush! Pshaw!” spluttered Rees-Mogg. “If you don’t understand, you are no gentleman yourself! An ordinary English gentleman must be in possession of a fortune and several hundred acres in Somersetshire, and he must spend his time on higher pursuits. Here, if you want to know more, read these contemporary novels by Jane Austen.”

What about wealth creation? Isn’t that your responsibility?

“You misunderstand,” he replied urbanely. “My responsibility is to safeguard and stockpile the wealth and invest it wisely.”

So, in essence, you hoard both capital and income, most of it earned by the sweat of others? Doesn’t that make you some kind of economic parasite?

“You are an oik of the lowest kind, sir,” he remarked dismissively. “Guards, escort this scullion, this fustilarian, to the boundary, and beat him soundly if he dare utter another word!”

Laws, taxes, restrictions of all kinds – for the many, not the few. Tug your forelock on the way out.

Rumours Northern Ireland had taken the crown off Belgium for longest time without a government were put paid to today  by a representative of the Guinness Book of World Records.

”As still a constituent part of the United Kingdom, for the time being,” Mrs Stout said, “Northern Ireland can not independently qualify to knock Belgium off the top spot.”

The reasoning is because the U.K. now wears the crown for longest period without governance.

”Arguably the government of the United Kingdom ceased to operate in any recognisable form on the 24th June 2016,” Mrs Stout explained,

“and definitely ceased to have a government the moment a basic AI system, still in the beta test phase, was elevated to the position of prime minister,

”We know what happened after that. Chris Grayling remained a minister. Liam Fox and David Davis were given their own ministries. Well, governance was over. Packets of mince, crooks and pieces of lumber don’t run countries, except into the ground of course.”

The acknowledgement of the UK’s world beating status in this coveted area has caused celebration in the ranks of influential politicians who are not governing anything either.

”This is precisely what Brexit is about,” Nigel Farage celebrated the gong, broadcasting his daily radio show, Nazis Today, “just imagine how we can build on this if Steve Bannon becomes PM? I mean, Boris Johnson.”

The official opposition were asked for comment on the record too,

”This just shows the vicious bias in the mainstream media,” a spokesman for retired intellectual and jam maker, JC, told us, “not one mention that with our current party leadership, who back Brexit just like the Tories, we have got the double,

”This is also the longest period in peace time for a democracy to go without both a functioning government and a functioning official opposition party.”

Credit where credit is due, across the political spectrum. U.K. take a bow, you’ve got a double.

Disgraced former rear of the year Boris Johnson made the plea in the wake of his controversial comments in the Telegraph. His party has threatened to withdraw the whip, and he’s not best pleased. As usual, the buxom blond had made a massive arse of himself.

The potential PM’s private peccadillo has been revealed. In common with many posh ex-public schoolboys, the bumbling bombshell gets off on flagellation.

A friend of Johnson’s spoke to LCD Views on condition of anonymity, so let’s call him ‘Michael Gove’.

“Boris and I are members of an exclusive club,” oozed ‘Gove’. “We enjoy, erm, unusual stimuli. Asphyxiation and flagellation, don’t you know. The public thinks it’s just another think tank, called Hang ‘Em And Flog ‘Em.

“That’s right!” agreed ‘Gove’’s friend, who gave his name as ‘Alex de Pfeffel’. “I’m always in the Miss Whiplash Room. There’s this one young filly, name of Saffiyya, lovely girl, never says a word but my goodness can she handle a cat o’ nine tails! She comes in, wearing full letterbox burqa, all you can see is the twinkle in her eyes. You never know quite what she is going to do. It’s very exciting! I’m all of a fibblefabble just thinking about it!”

“That’s why he… I mean, Mr Johnson, wants to ban it,” explained ‘Gove’. “It’s unstatesmanlike to get incoherently aroused whenever you encounter a Muslim lady.”

Johnson’s reputation as a lecherous tart goes before him. As ‘Gove’ delicately puts it, “Boris has his, erm, Johnson in many, erm, pies.”

As Foreign Secretary, Johnson was able to circle the globe in the cause of diplomacy and, erm, pies. “Foreign Sec!” he is reported to have said. “Almost as good as British sex!”

But withdrawing the whip may have unforeseen consequences. “I don’t think Mr Johnson knows what withdrawal means,” remarks his long-suffering personal physician Tigham Together. “Once in place, he stays in place until the job is done.”

Dr Together denied rumours that Johnson has a girl, with several improbably blonde children, in every port. “It’s my job to make sure he keeps his nose clean,” be claims. “No more diplomatic cock-ups, I tell him, every time. Protect yourself from the consequences of your actions!”

And if the whip is withdrawn?

“Mr Johnson will have to apply his considerable energy to another project,” replied Dr Together. “He is threatening to go into full time mainstream politics!”

Meanwhile ‘de Pfeffel’ and ’Gove’ emerged from Hang ‘Em And Flog ‘Em, shaken and very much stirred. “We know when we are beaten!” quipped ‘de Pfeffel’. “Now let’s get some drugs and come back for another round! Our friend Steve Bann…”

“Mr Bigballs,” interrupted ‘Gove’.

“Yes, Mr Bigballs does some seriously good shit,” confirmed ‘de Pfeffel’. “Don’t put that in your article!”

The mere thought had not even begun to consider the possibility of crossing my mind.

The Conservatives confirmed this afternoon that they were organising a straw drawing competition amongst their MPs to see who will have the honour of running stark naked across College Green.

”This is off the record,” an aide to Theresa May told LCD Views, “but it is to stop people talking about Brexit.”

We are unclear why they would be looking to cause a major distraction of this nature, given that even today trading on WTO rules will apparently make the U.K. fabulously wealthy, which is why the rest of the world already does it.

”Or talking about anything we’ve done in office really,” the aide added, “no one. No one at all knew that privatising the probation service would be a disaster. Or privatising the alcohol and drug rehab service. Or privatising Brexit. Or privatising the forensic service. What we failed to do was introduce enough competition into forensics, I think, oh and into shouting at drunks to pull themselves together.”

The straw drawing will take place this evening with crayon and paper supplied to all the MPs.

”Gove is going to draw a single use straw, I can just feel it,” the aide smiled, “Davis will draw a burger, uncooked, to show how clever he is. Nadine Dorries will wait to see what Boris draws and then just do the same but madly exaggerated.”

What do you think the Prime Minister will draw?

”Boos and hisses whenever she shows her face in public, most likely.”

No. For the competition?

”Oh, probably a rainbow. But one that is just a pure white rainbow. That’s how she thinks they all should be.”

And when will the streaking on College Green take place?

”The moment the fuss Boris has caused over the burka fizzles out, of course. We simply can’t let the media focus on what we’re actually doing. It would be a disaster.”

It already is.

”Yes, but so long as no one says it, then we can pretend it isn’t really so until we all tumble screaming into the abyss and a few Tories get a hell of a lot richer.”

What if the streaking doesn’t work?

”Then Boris will stage a book burning.”

The Official Monster Raving Looney Party has rejected calls from its grassroots supporter to appoint Boris Johnson as its new leader in place of current leader Alan “Howling Laud” Hope.

Party spokesman “Baying Baronet Bunsen”, confirmed that the suggestion had been put to the party steering committee over a round of frothing nut brown ales but had eventually been rejected. Albeit after several more rounds, with chasers. And some tabs.

“We appreciate that Boris is genuinely raving, and demonstrably both a monster and loony, but we are at heart a democratic party and could not accept a leader who is larger than the party itself,” he explained, pointing out that with current membership standing at only nine, Boris would need to go on a crash diet before he could even be considered.

Even then he explained, Johnson’s political record would count against him.

“People seem to have forgotten that the chosen role of the OMRLP is to satirise mainstream politics by promoting policies which may be populist but are also clearly the product of warped and troubled minds, and are not in any way shape or form supposed to be implemented,” he said.

“Boris buses…shrubbery bridges…f*ck business…burka bank robbers…all admirably deranged policies and sentiments in their own right, but he is an actual elected politician, and as such his monstrous lunacy has been “unofficial”, and thus in direct competition with OMRLP,” he explained.

“If Boris is genuinely serious about being an Official Monster Raving Loony, we call on him to prove his worth by emulating our glorious founder and long time party leader, Screaming Lord Sutch,” he said, neglecting to mention that the 41-times-a-candidate-never-elected, Lord Sutch hanged himself in 1999.

“He set an example that every deranged overweight, ego-driven wannabe despot would do well to follow….And we’d be more happy to supply the rope,” he smirked.

LCD Views has been hearing this afternoon from StayDadSit, a think tank opaquely funded to promote the interests of stay at home dads, and heard how they are “really relieved it’s only women who will be have to stop work to care for elderly relatives”.

The relief is especially great for fathers whose children have now reached school age.

“When I agreed to stop my own paid work and care for our children, so my wife could continue with her career,” CEO of StayDadSit, Mr Mum, told us, “I was actually bricking it that it would eventually lead to me not having any substantial career beyond homemaking due to the interruption in my paid working life, and how I would psychologically deal with that, but I figured it was worth the cost in the interests of my wife, gender equality and our children. Still…”

Still what?

“On top of that anxiety, and all the conversations I would inevitably have with other men, and some women, wherein I would hear ‘oh, so you don’t work then’, when I said I was a stay at home dad, I was really completely terrified that I may find myself then moving seamlessly from caring for our children to caring for our ageing parents. I mean, this is a modern, western country in the 21st century, who the hell does that? We’ve outsourced that offshore along with ownership of the water utilities.”

So the announcement from the Department of Health that only women would be compelled to care for elderly relatives was a great relief?

“A welcome relief. It’s pretty much turned me into a Brexiter, and I was dead against Brexit till today. I see it as a fascist project, essentially the return of the Nazi’s and I hold both Theresa May and Jeremy Corbyn in complete and utter contempt for their support of Brexit,

“But it never occurred to me a tangible benefit of living under a fascist regime would be the end of EU worker migration leading to a social care crisis, leading to my wife having to throw in her career at its pinnacle, to take her mum shopping for groceries. Oh and to the GPs.”

StayDadSit added later, this move brings us a step closer to proper equality and the end of the sexual revolution.

“It wasn’t that good anyway, there was hardly any sex. We will be thanking the Tory party personally and its, definitely not misogynist policy dreamers and many forward thinkers for the various ways they are determined to return the UK to the 1950’s.”

Talks on the UK`s departure from the European Union have collapsed following the announcement of the untimely death of top British comedian and international trade deal expert, Barry Chuckle.

An ashen face prime minister Theresa May confirmed the news to reporters outside 10 Downing street.

“We’ve not just lost the greatest comedian and entertainer since Max Bygraves but also my chief adviser on international trade and one of the few steady hands in the cabinet,” she said.

“His grasp of complex legal detail left Gove, Davis, Johnson and Raab in the shade… Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear….”  she added sobbing that she had spent the morning trying to contact Michael Macintyre but he had been unavoidably detained at his pedicurist.

“He’s one of the few people qualified to take over from Barry and who we can trust to not put a well manicured foot wrong,” she explained.

Known primarily as an arse crackingly unfunny children’s entertainer, Chuckle was catapulted onto the international diplomatic stage following a successful change.org petition to have him and his brother Paul lead the UK’s Brexit negotiation team on the basis that they couldn’t possibly be any worse than the politicians then responsible.

Commenting on Chuckle’s passing and the collapse of talks the EU’s chief negotiator Michel Barnier, confirmed that Barry had been a worthy and formidable opponent and would be sadly missed.

“His interjection of “Silly you”, when I pointed out the need to negotiate regulatory alignment in order to implement his backstop proposal for the Irish border, had me reeling on the ropes – he said, adding that he felt that at heart the later lamented jokester was a true European.

“For me his constant refrain of ‘From me, to you, from me to you…’ exemplified the true spirit of the European Union,” he explained adding that he had nothing against Michael Macintyre taking on the role of the UK’s chief negotiator.

“Of course we would welcome Michael to the table if that is what Mrs May wants,” he said.

“At least, if nothing else, when it all inevitably goes tits up, we won’t have any trouble getting to sleep….” he laughed.

New airport security measures concerning families with two names had an unexpected hiccup last night when Jacob Rees-Mogg was taken away for questioning by guards.

The new regulations, intended to reduce people trafficking, require families with two surnames to bring birth certificates or adoption papers to clarify their relationship.

As such, when Mr Rees-Mogg and his family were heading out on holiday yesterday, they found themselves facing a lot of questions from the border guards.

One of the security squad on duty last night, Luke Afterham, explained things thusly:

“This guy comes through with two surnames, so naturally my boys and I stopped him for questioning. He got all snooty, asking, ‘don’t you know who I am?’ – as it happens, we did, but rules is rules, and two names means extra questioning, so we had to haul him away. He protested that rules were only in place for poor people, but we explained that as we were the enforcers and we were poor too, we were just doing our jobs correctly.”

The security guards escorted Mr Rees-Mogg away, much to the excitement of his wife and children. Assistant security chief Ann Sermy picks up the story:

“I asked him all the standard questions about whether he could prove he’s their biological father, and he looked down his nose at me, told me to shut up and get back in the kitchen. For that I put the rubber gloves on straight away. He protested that he was a Conservative MP, so I responded that he must be used to doing this sort of thing for fun then.”

Eventually, they had to release Mr Rees-Mogg, when his children took to passing the time by reciting their Latin verbs, thus proving beyond all doubt he was their biological father.

Still, bravo to the airport staff for doing their job so diligently. That rectal examination must have been unpleasant.

“Well, technically it’s not part of the procedure for people-trafficking,” Miss Sermy admitted, “but we figured a smug bastard like that must have something to hide so we checked him for drugs as well while we had the chance. You know how much cocaine his lot get through.”

Mr Rees-Mogg himself has declined to comment on the incident. He was last seen boarding the plane with a complexion that could be described as resembling Count Dracula, if that esteemed Transylvanian noble will forgive me for such a comparison.

What follows is a work of imagination and fiction...

“Hip hip hooray!” cried Arron. “Time for our hols! Let’s get the chaps together.” Nigel ran around excitedly, as though he knew what was going on, even though he was a dog.

Soon the Infamous Five were all assembled: Arron, Jacob, Terry and Arlene (not forgetting Nigel the dog).

“Where are going?” asked Arlene. “I hear Northern Ireland is jolly nice.”

“We are going to Uncle Donald’s place, More-a-Lager,” said Arron.

“Hooray! I love Uncle Donald!” exclaimed Terry. Terry was a girl who wanted to be a boy. Her real name was Theresa, but everyone always called her Terry.

Jacob’s nanny had packed a picnic with piles of ham sandwiches and lashings of ginger beer. They piled into the Mystery Machine and set off. In no time at all they reached More-a-Lager.

A policeman stood outside. “Well, I say, this is jolly queer,” said Jacob.

“Evening all!” said the policeman. “Awfully sorry chaps, but you can’t go in. There’s been an insinuation of money laundering!”

“But we are guests of Uncle Donald’s, my good man,” said Arlene.

“Sorry miss, my mistake, do come in,” replied the contrite policeman. “Only doing my job, my lady.”

“What’s money laundering?” whispered Terry, anxious to keep on top of things as always.

“It’s when an absolute rotter makes heaps of cash by being very naughty,” Arron explained. “He then invests it in genuine assets.”

I never knew that you could make money running through wheat fields, thought Terry.

It was dark inside, but they could hear muffled grunts and the sound of water splashing. They headed straight for the kitchen. There, sitting gagged and bound, was Uncle Donald!

Terry fainted. Arlene crossed herself. Arron and Jacob found themselves standing unusually erect. Only Nigel took action, bounding across the kitchen to where the other man stood, bent over a basin. Distracted from his work, he looked up suddenly.

“Uncle Vladimir!” they all cried at once.

“Who’s a good boy then? You haven’t changed a bit!” said Uncle Vladimir to Nigel, who was happily humping his leg. “Here, have a Scooby Snack!”

“What’s going on?” asked Jacob, still feeling strangely uplifted.

“Uncle Donald and I had a few vodkas, then went for a jolly nice walk,” explained Uncle Vladimir. “Unfortunately, we fell into some puddles, which were jolly muddy, so I am washing all our notes and coins.”

“And why is Uncle Donald gagged and bound?” asked Terry. “He looks like he is about to burst!”

“It’s OK, I’ve burst already,” laughed Uncle Donald, releasing himself from bondage. “Seeing you always makes me jolly well burst!”

“Oh, Uncle Donald!” tittered Terry, blushing.

“I’ve finished too,” said Uncle Vladimir. “Let’s go before the plods start nosing around again.”

“Come with us!” said Arron.

On the way out, they encountered the faithful policeman again. “I say, good evening, my good fellow,” said Jacob amiably. “We’ve sorted everything out, just a little misunderstanding, don’t you know. Why don’t you toddle off to the food bank?”

“Much obliged, I’m sure, my lord,” he replied, toddling off.

“I say, it was jolly good luck you turned up just then!” said Uncle Vladimir. “I have gotten away with it, thanks to you meddling kids!”

They all piled into the Mystery Machine, where they found enough ham sandwiches and ginger beer left to have a jolly good feast.