Category: Inappropriate language

ROOTED ROUTE MASTER : Boris Johnson’s famous bus is rumoured to be in for repairs today after its bumper was dented running over the UK ambassador to the USA.

“It’s just rumours,” a mechanic at the repair shop told LCD Views, “people are saying on social media it was Boris driving the bus, with pretend journalist, Oakshit, as the conductor, but it’s not confirmed. Whoever was driving the bumper is completely f*cked. But it seems likely Boris was a fellow traveller. When he was asked if it was right to drive right over the ambassador, to please Trump, and if he would pick him up and dust him down, he wouldn’t say yes.”

And it’s not just the bumper of the famous red bus.

“The paint work is all scratched up too. Partly that’s from running down, and then reversing back over, the UK ambassador to the USA. But it’s also because lots of Tory MPs keep coming down to the shop to key the bodywork.”

Why the bus decided to go after the UK Ambassador is clear at least.

“He was a thought criminal. He had to be purged,” the repair worker said, “I think that’s a very dangerous precedent. Between you and me, I get the feeling the Brexiters won’t be happy until they’ve completely dismantled all the pillars of a modern, representative democracy. Back to squabbling feudal barons with the little people just chaff. But that’s just my opinion.”

Attempts to confirm the rumours of who was driving the bus are underway. CCTV is being sought.

“It’ll save the country a lot of money in the end. Think of it as a Brexit dividend. Once we no longer govern ourselves we’ll save loads of money being run from the US. That’s the route that is being mastered by the Brexiters.”

All aboard!

Plummy-voiced Eton-educated animated scarecrow Boris Johnson is concerned that there are parts of the country that don’t speak English. Specifically, The North.

“I’ve been all over The North,” claimed Boris, rising from the wreckage of his bed. “Birmingham, Liverpool, Newcastle, Glasgow, Swansea, Penzance, the East End. I can’t understand what the devil any of them is saying!”

Boris went to Newcastle to reassure the locals. “Everything will be spaffing, I mean spiffing, yes, yes, fantastic, I say, jolly good,” he stammered at a public meeting. “Goodness me!”

“Aareet, why-aye are yee takin wor yeut iv the EU?” yelled a Geordie from the crowd.

“One is most terribly sorry, my good sir, but well I say – one does beg your paaardohn one dane’t knoh what you mean,” replied Boris.

“Yee faffin faggit, ah will hoy yee intee the Tyne!” replied his adversary.

The pattern was repeated in Birmingham. “Naaa dale Brexit is bostin yaouw soy?” asked a Brummie interlocutor.

“Heavens above old bean, steady on,” replied Boris. “I must be going crazy, because I can’t make out head nor tail of your charming speech!”

“Mama weer all crazee now,” replied the Brummie in disgust.

Everywhere Boris went across The North, it was the same old story.

“Where’s all de fuck’n rips gone, eh, eh, eh? Calm down! Eh, eh?” asked a disgruntled Scouser.

“If ye dornt listen tae us Scots, we ur gonnae break awa’, Jimmy,” stated a strident Glaswegian.

“Shut yer norf and souf, yer posh bleeder!” bellowed an angry Cockney.

“It is most frightfully disappointing,” said a bewildered Boris. “None of these fine fellows can speak a single word of the Queen’s English. One is most considerably discombobulated. Compulsory re-education is the only way! Eton or bust! Jolly good show.”

Elocution means elocution. There must be some EU money sloshing around for it. Are you posh or peasant?

KNEE MOSELEY : THE GOVERNMENT is launching a new initiative to help make a success of Brexit. The scheme will see everyone eligible to vote in the UK choose a new name flavoured by Global Britain.

“We calling it ‘Choose Your Brexit Name’,” a spokesman at DExEU told LCD Views, “we don’t have a lot to do at the ministry for Exiting the European Union In As Shambolically A Way As Possible now, so we’ve decided to help with the country’s morale.”

The drive to rename everyone in the country was inspired by the social media fad of ‘porn names’, and by a pair of well known Conservative MPs who had a baby and called it Brexit.

“Porn name jokes are all very well,” the spokesman continued, “but it’s not very British. At least, not the modern Britain, governed by idiots, that we all know and love.”

The formula for choosing your new Brexit Name is miraculously simple. So simple anyone can do it.

“Of course if you choose not to select your new Brexit name, to help make a success of Brexit,” the spokesman warned, “as soon as either Jeremy Hunt or Boris Johnson begins the drive to crash the country out of the EU by the end of October, well at that stage the government will choose a name for you. This will be done at random with a computer algorithm.”

But what’s the formula to choose your Brexit name voluntarily?

“It’s very easy,” the spokesman said, “my Brexit Name is Ear Mussolini. In fact it’s my real name now. I’ve changed it legally. But don’t worry if you don’t do that. Once the government chooses your Brexit name for you they’ll change it for you too. And give you a new blue passport.”

But what’s the formula?

“You simply take the first body part you punched yourself in and your favourite WW2 leader. It couldn’t be simpler.”

Choose your Brexit Name today, or somewhere a computer will do it for you.

HITTING A CAR WITH TREE : An aged Basil Fawlty used his maiden speech in the EU parliament to compare the unique right of Freedom of Movement across a continent today to slavery.

”Slaves were given burgundy passports too you know!” Basil informed a despairing crowd of democratically elected and well paid multi-national representatives, “it was the mark of slavery in the ancient world to allow people to move of their own free will. The very stamp of it.”

The speech, thought to be highly amusing to Basil and the other desperate characters representing the Fawlty Party in the EU, was an interesting comparison.

”Completely insulting to the millions who suffered and died under slavery of course,” our resident historian notes, “much like Jeremy Hunt’s atrocious attempt to use Auschwitz for political point scoring the other day. There’s something about Brexit that rots the moral core out lock and stock.”

It also caused considerable embarrassment back in the U.K. to anyone who isn’t a cretinous bigot.

It is thought to perhaps signal a change in strategy by the Brexiters. And could well bear fruit as people formally opposed to Brexit begin to switch to supporting Leave if it at least means idiots like Widdecombe and co have to shut up and come home. Stop making us cringe so deeply on the world stage.

How the actual hardworking, principled EU representatives will react to the roll call of horror that is Brexit Party MEPs isn’t clear, but one did offer us a clue.

”Just between you and me we’re all going to move back to Brussels,” the  source said, “the moment those idiots turn their backs again. Given they never turn up to actually work, it’s highly likely they won’t notice we’re we’ve gone.”

WHAT HAPPENS AT AUNTEE’S : The BBC have deftly turned the latest criticism of their lack of impartiality down the legside for two today by coming up with an entirely credible reason for helping out Boris Johnson in a documentary.

“You’ve seen him, he always talks shit,” the editor of the programme in question explained, “so when I was cutting up the footage for the FCO documentary I had a lot of trouble picking out any individual phrases mumbled by Mr Johnson. It was a turd salad. That’s all he ever dishes up.”

The explanation is believed to be a credible excuse. Even the most in-depth analysis of Boris Johnson’s verbiage leads the most hardened feeling like they’ve been hosed down by an actual sewer hose. With a blockage. That unblocked. While you were being hosed.

”It wasn’t any easier trying to pick out an individual profane insult directed across the channel from his catalogue of xenophobic nonsense. It all just washes over you after a while, and then you need to shower. I’m surprised anyone was able to tell the turd moment was missing.”

Quite how the French will respond to the latest insult from a senior British politician is not certain.

It can’t help but burnish the most probable Prime Minister of Great Britain’s already solid reputation.

”They’ll probably fetch a cow,” the BBC editor mused, “watch out above as it flies over. British comedy classics from the past are a guide for how to deal with the Britain of today.”

TOSSING UP A WORD SALAD : The UK’s next prime minister (well, maybe) has given a candid early morning interview, part of a media blitz, in which he described the way he writes his speeches.

“I get these hard little cans, tins, tins that have food letters inside, you know, aaaaaaah, those little alphabet foods, and then I, I, I get my maid to find the can opener before scooping out the food letters inside,” he told a baffled radio journalist,

“then I smear the letters all over my face. I paint my face in them with my palms. It’s quite messy. I always need a shower after it, but I make sure to pick off the letters before I get into the shower so it doesn’t block up the plug hole,

“plug holes are very interesting places. Whole worlds. Worlds like you can find on Star Trek. When I have enough letters I take the ones that stuck to my cheeks and I place them in a line on the sofa. A white sofa so you can see the words as you write them. Then I commit it all to memory. It’s how I write my speeches. All of them. All the time. Alphabet spaghetti. An amazing British invention. It’s how I unwind.”

The interviewer just stared. The country just stared. The entire world just stared and decided we have now given up all pretence to still being a serious country.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

RELATIONSHIP PIGEON CHESS: ‘Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, no one knows what fucking planet Boris Johnson is on’ is on the bookshelves today as publishers seek to cash in on the Johnson news tsunami.

The book itself is merely an update on the 1990’s smash self help book.

An entire extra chapter has been added at the back, under cover of darkeness, and guaranteed to have buggered off by dawn each day, to deal with what there is to learn about relationships from Boris Johnson.

“It’s a fat chapter,” Professor Fifty-Shades, responsible for the update, reveals, “200 pages long! And every page is a blank one. That’s because there’s nothing Boris Johnson knows about women that anyone should pass on.”

But the mention of planets does give the book an extra layer of meaning.

Which planet exactly is Boris Johnson on?

”Nobody knows. He changes location daily lest someone try and interview him. It’s costing a fortune to keep him concealed. But we know where he is from.”

Oh, where’s that?

”Pluto. It’s confirmed. Cold. Dark. Distant. Tectonically active, but no use to anyone but itself. Perfect fit.”

Oh we immediately thought of the classic Disney cartoon dog.

”That’ll do too.”

Is there any chance of sending him back to Pluto permanently, before he does more harm with his fondness for dog whistle racism?

”We’re working on it. The working theory is tie a blonde sex doll to a giant bone shaped spaceship. Dose up Bojo with coke. Fire her off into orbit and watch him go.”

Thats great.

”But there’s only one problem if we succeed.”

Which is?

”Then we’ll have to work out where Jeremy Hunt is from.”

BOJO IS AN ASS : Boris Johnson’s frothy right wing supporters are demanding his nosey neighbours be slapped with an ASBOJO today.

The demands come after it was reported that Mr Johnson had such a loud domestic with his young lover, Ms Carrie On-Untilthenextblonde, that neighbours became so concerned they called the police, and even recorded the shouted incident lest the woman’s disobedient demand of “Get off of me!” was a precursor to something very bad.

”It’s pathetic. It’s just jealousy from the rabble,” Ms Any Right-winger, rent a propaganda Telegraph columnist, said.

”A posh man should be able to do what he likes in the confines of his own home, or the flat of the young woman he commited adultery with. To eavesdrop just shows how much some of the plebs have forgotten their place. They should have stuffed their fingers in their ears and gone back to sleep. Presumably they have factory work, cleaning, matchmaking, tarting or domestic service to show up for at dawn? Civilisation is failing if a man can’t apply the rule of thumb without a glass held against the wall!”

The incident with Mr Johnson broke into the news cycle, pretty much solely concerned with Mr Johnson (how very Trumpian we’ve become), on the same day as the horrible news that a woman attacked another Tory MP’s hands with her neck.

”ASBOJO the lot of them!” rent a gob added, “the conditions of one are very useful, as someone’s political affiliation must be comfirmed before they can call 999. This stop the march of progress dead in its tracks.”

Calling the police may or may not be of any use anyway, as the police first allegedly lied about attending Mr Johnson’s late night schooling of the silly little girl, before being confronted with detailed knowledge of it by journalists and having to confirm they did attend.

”ASBOJO the Guardian while you’re at it. If the great and the good can’t be protected from the rule of law the U.K. will fall. It’s about democracy at the end of the day, and how we manipulate it.”

ASBOJO, just combine an ASS with a BOJO. It’s a two asses for one kinda thing. Get yours today!

TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT : THE DEVIL himself is in the news today, speaking about how he managed to get his soul back from Satan.

Goggle eyed lord of darkness, Jeremy Hunt, is clearly pleased as punch over having his soul returned by Beelzebub late last night.

“The fiend left Jeremy’s soul in a greasy, brown paper bag on the doorstep of Mr Hunt’s home,” an aide to Lucifer told LCD Views, “he didn’t want to risk having to look into the serpent’s eyes. Bag it. Drop it. Run.”

But why give back something he’d paid for with no possibility of recouping the cost?

“It’s worthless. Oh, and it was the smell. It was pretty overwhelming. Like a barrel of dead fish crossed with a complete idiot soaked in the sweat of an old pair of running shoes. It was only going to get worse over eternity. So a decision was taken to remove it. Write off the loss and move on.”

A cock-a-hoop Mr Hunt (holding the small bag between thumb and forefinger) told reporters:

“It’s pretty funny. I get to continue being myself and enjoying the sense of entitlement, I mean achievement, that comes from getting away with forgetting to register seven luxury flats on member’s interests, while plotting to further remove any sense of joy from mere mortals. Quite amazing really. I never expected, when agreeing my Faustian pact as a young man, that the devil would renege on the deal and I’d get to keep the spoils regardless. It just shows how clever I am. Why I should be prime minister.”

What exactly he plans to do with his soul now that it is returned isn’t yet clear.

“I’ll probably put it in the basement with my conscience,” Mr Hunt shrugged, “and all the other possessions that I’ve no use for.”

HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND PANIC INSTEAD : The UK’s next Prime Minister, if he can keep his mouth shut, Boris Johnson, has been advised by primate specialists from London Zoo to hide as much as possible during the leadership contest.

“It’s because of his poor impulse control,” Professor Whawhahaaa! told LCD Views in an exclusive interview, “he’s little more restraint than an adolescent male chimpanzee. So we’re talking almost zero.”

But how did you get the message through to Mr Johnson?

“We first got his attention with some straight bananas. Traditional British grown ones, you know, the bendy kind? A bunch of them wouldn’t have caught his eye. But a line of straight ones and he was right over there.”

Clever. What next?

“Then we rigged up a mannequin in a blonde wig and put it on a little set of tracks. As he approached it we used a remote control device to wheel it into a cave.”

He must have thought he was in then!

“He did. He lumbered straight into the cave. But when he got inside we’d already removed the blonde via a hidden door. At first he seemed to think she was playing hard to get, then he became angry and started throwing his scat at the walls and displaying his chest.”

And after that?

“We tranquillised him. We placed him in a chair and weighed him down with copies of The Telegraph. When he regained consciousness we advised him to just stay there. Do not move. Do not go out into public. Do not commit anymore adultery. Do not speak. Just basically stay out of sight until Tuesday night.”

But won’t he just explode with pent up emotions?

“Quite probably. But it will only result in another Telegraph column and anyone who reads that has ditched all notion of critical evaluation of Mr Johnson. So no harm will be done to his reputation.”

But other people already have a poor opinion that may well get worse.

“That doesn’t matter. They don’t get to vote on who is to be the UK’s next prime minister.