Hammond to read all of ‘Ulysses’ out at budget launch as it makes way more sense than a Brexit budget

The United Kingdom’s penultimate Chancellor of the Exchequer, Phillip Hammond, has announced he is to take a novel approach to the delivery of his last budget, before he scarpers like the rest of this insane, gutless and deluded cabinet, upon the delivery of Brexit.

”I have spent hours scribbling sums on the back of fag packets left over from David Davis’ time as Wrexit Secretary, but alas, there is absolutely no chance of making a coherent noserag budget with Brexit looming,” he will tell the house, while wearing a stove pipe hat with black lace trimming, the better to appear the undertaker, “which is a little perplexing, as whenever Davis wrote on them he was convinced of his own genius.”

So what has Hammond decided to do to make the books balance?

”I even consulted modern monetary theory, but the thought of leaving a penny in the economy that I, as a modern conservative chancellor could screw out, preferably off poor people, was enough to make my blood run even colder than it already does. To solve this impasse I have decided to read out all of James Joyce’s classic post modern, psychoanalytic reaction to evolving understandings of human psychology in a machine age, and so I will be reading ‘Ulysses’ out in full, as it makes a lot more sense than trying to compile a Brexit budget.”

He will then pause dramatically and begin.

”Sing, goddess, the anger of stately, plump Buck Achilles, son Achilleus
who came from St Troyhead, and its devastation plumps buxom woebetide the ground, which put pains thousandfold upon the Brexitannians,
hurled in their multitudes to the house of Tax Evasion strong souls
of heroes, but gave their bodies to be the delicate feasting
of xenophobes, of all birds, and the will of Daedalus was accomplished
since that time when first there stood in division of knickers, [only Ken Clarke is expected to realise the error in Hammond’s composition] turnips, parsley’s and commemorative fifty pence coins.”

“Thanks, old chap,” May will cry briskly, when Hammond is complete, “That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will you? Before the DUP realise what’s up?”

You can almost taste it? Can’t you?

Arlene Foster pledges to build a wall and make Westminster pay for it

The one person willing to ‘just get on with it’, Arlene Foster, has put forward her solution to the Irish border problem. Quite simply, she will construct a wall – and force Westminster to foot the bill.

In all other respects, Brexit and the no-deal preparations have stalled. It is as if the elephant in the room has got fed up and decided to sit down in the way for a while.

“This is my one big chance to make a mark,” remarked Foster candidly. “Because after this shambles nobody will elect any of us ever again. If elections are still a thing, that is. Since democracy ended on 23 June 2016, there might not be a need for any more.”

Taking a leaf from the Donald Trump playbook is one thing, but getting your own government to pay is different. “Yeah but no,” Arlene clarified. “It’s them and us. Northern Ireland is a special case. And anyway can you imagine Varadkar forking out? Feckin Irish tightwads.”

Who would actually build the wall? “Simple,” claims Foster. “There are thousands of filthy migrants in the UK, coming over here and showing us what hard work looks like. They could build it in no time at all, cash in hand, no questions asked. Afterwards we could stick them all in a big old boat and tell them to clear off back to the EU that they love so much.”

It’s gratifying that Foster actually has a plan, however ridiculous. It puts her head and shoulders over all the other Brexiters.

Critics from the Republic were swift to point out that a wall is, de facto, a hard border. They took their concerns directly to Foster. “Unfortunately I couldn’t understand a word they said,” she remarked sadly. “It sounded like a bunch of old men shouting ‘Drink! Girls! Arse! Feck!’ to me.”

The Westminster dog with the Irish tail was later seen sneaking into the secret room containing the magic money tree.

Government minister married to drug dealer

The government’s very own drugs minister, Victoria Atkins, has revealed a conflict of interests. Victoria’s secret is out. She is married, handily, to a drug dealer.

The revelation came when she was asked about the government’s drug taking policy. “I ain’t sayin’ nuffin about dat, bruv,” she replied. “Da big man don’t want nobody treadin’ on his turf, know what I mean, innit fam.”

The Speaker glanced up from his lines of white powder to reprimand her for using unparliamentary language, before remarking, “F*ck me, Vix, this shit is the dog’s bollocks!”

Further questioning revealed that what Atkins meant was that she was unable to comment, because it might damage her drug dealing husband’s core business. The suspicion remains that she is distributing some of his supplies.

“Why do you think she got the job?” declared fellow MP Filly Buster. “She’s shagging the biggest dealer in London! Everyone goes to Vix when they want a pick-me-up.”

Buster reveals that Atkins distributes uppers, downers, inners, outers, and shake-it-all-abouters.

Hallucinogenics are also popular. “Mind-altering drugs have been de rigeur in the Cabinet for years,” reveals Buster. “How do you think Brexit got off the ground? Everyone was off their tits. Hard drugs for a hard Brexit. Drugs are the only reason Theresa May manages to survive Brexit negotiations!”

It also explains why nobody has got it together enough to mount a leadership challenge. “I could quit any time,” May claims. “If I wanted to.”

“Look at the evidence!” shouts Buster. “Certain, erm, substances make you brash and overconfident. Look at Liam Fox. Listen to the gibberish spouted by Boris Johnson. The entire ERG is permanently wasted, and Jacob Rees-Mogg insists on a gentleman in an early Victorian doctor’s attire to dispense his laudanum.”

This honesty could be a shot in the arm for a floundering government. Drugs for the many, not the few, is the message.

After all, we could all use a bit of help to get us through the next few years.

Daily Mail anticipating boom in sales as post Brexit toilet paper shortage bites

News in the soft papers and here at the coarse international news media superpower seems likely to finally wake up stubborn leavers to just how crap their position will be in post No Deal Brexit Britain.

“Pinching one off will not be risk free,” our bathroom specialist, Mr White Tiles, advises, “forget the insulin shortages, forget the lack of radioactive materials for medical procedures, or that your heart medication will be in a customs queue from Calais to Reading, it’s those precious rolls of soft, and sometimes scented, paper that you’re really going to miss.”

The advice comes on the back of the revelation that the United Kingdom holds a stockpile of only one roll per citizen, with the rest imported in a just in time sequence from across the ENGLISH Channel day in and day out.

And in what promises to turn all guts to jelly, transport supremo Chris “failing” Grayling is going to be responsible for keeping your bottom wiped.

”The Daily Mail is of course anticipating a boom in sales,” Mr White Tiles continues, “as remainers stock up on the best alternative to rolls of paper in Labrador puppy packaging.”

The Express and The Sun likewise see a massive surge of sewer journalism turning into actual sewerage as the No Deal goal of the multi-billionaire, tax evading Brexiters comes to fruition.

”Laxative suppliers are downbeat though,” our correspondent continues, “the future is not smelling of roses for everyone, in spite of the pre-referendum assurances from walking, talking, permanently clogged human colons such as Fartage and Bum Buxom Boris. With everyone shitting themselves the moment martial law is imposed in April to ensure the cabinet maintains their own supplies of big roll.”

Best advice we can offer is to start stocking up on tabloid journalism now and probably leaves, lots of big leaves.

”Not nettles though,” Mr White Tiles adds, “unless you want to distract yourself for a while from the shit for brains idicoy of Brexit by rubbing the prickly little bastards on your ring.”

Divided Tories unable to add up

Sums are not the Conservatives’ strongest point. This mean – not to say average – bunch are so divided into different fractions that nothing they say adds up any more.

The least numerate of all the government departments is, naturally, the DExEU. Every impact assessment, every prediction, every confident pronouncement gives the same impression. That of a reluctant eight year old doing his maths homework.

LCD Views sought the opinion of number cruncher Algie Braic. “They really are a few beads short of an abacus,” he sighed. “It’s lies, damned lies, as they say. Most of the time they seem to be picking random numbers out of thin air. It’s a tombola Brexit now.”

This is quite apt, as everyone in the country has effectively bought a ticket, in the expectation of winning the jackpot. Naturally, first prize had already been awarded to the organisers

“The examples of a poor head for figures are many,” Braic continued. “From mythical amounts painted on to the side of a bus, to fantastical trade deals and promises of greater funding for our public services. I’ve got their number!”

Not to mention the “95% complete Brexit”, which, according to Guy Verhofstadt, means “0% complete”.

It’s not just the government. The BBC equated 700,000 People’s Vote protesters with 1,200 Leave Means Leave activists. All those zeros must count for nothing.

Factor in all the crazy economics sponsored by the ERG, and you get the irrational situation in which every negative is a positive. Good news if you have an overdraft, but it does not bode well when the Treasury is scrabbling behind the sofa for loose change.

“I’ve tried to figure it out,” says Braic, scratching his head. “But it boils down to the fact that this government regards zeros simply as placeholders. Like most Tory MPs, in fact.”

Ultimately there is only one fact to bear in mind. 73.9% of all statistics are made up.

Lovechild of Madame Cholet and massive dildo denies support for Tommy Robinson

History and semantics can play cruel tricks.

Forty-five years ago, a steamy affair between Madame Cholet, the grey haired French cook, and diminutive, corpulent female lead in  BBC children’s TV series The Wombles, and a handsome young and athletic self lubricating French dildo, produced a love child.

A child whose very existence was for decadeds denied by both its parents, and BBC executives alike, but whose ethnicity, by a cruel accident of semantics, is now on everyone’s lips.

He is, by his admission, one of very few on the planet who can genuinely identify themselves as an actual bona fide COCKWOMBLE.

And he is angry, very angry.

“Yes, I am a Cockwomble, one of the few on this planet with the right to name myself thus,” he wept, hiding his face and declining to give his name.

“But that doesn’t make me a gammon faced, knob headed, right wing spunk trumpet,” he added pointing out that he didn’t get to choose his parents, but he does get to choose his politics.

“And there’s no way I would ever support that loud mouthed, racist wank puffin Tommeh Robinson – he looks like a cross between a Thunderbirds puppet and the demonic ventriloquist’s doll from classic British horror flick, DEAD OF NIGHT” he added.

A spokesman for the UK society of Spunk Trumpets declined to comment on recent salacious rumours concerning the late British Jazz trumpeter, Kenny “one’s salty, the other’s sweet” Ball.

The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) for its part issued a stern warning against the growing problem of sexual harassment of ciff nesting seabirds.

“This is not only dangerous for the birds, for whom gammon flavoured human secretions are not a normal food source but also, as many species – including puffins – roost on very high cliffs, extremely risky for the sick sadistic shitgibbons who indulge in these disgusting practices,” it said.

LCD views contacted David Attenborough for his views on primatial coprophilia but he (wisely) declined to comment.

Raab tells Barnier that in this country a backstop is called a wicket-keeper

It’s just not cricket, old boy. There’s many a slip twixt gully and wicket-keeper – or backstop.

“Barnier just doesn’t get it,” complained Raab. “He wants the gloves to come off, which is bad news for a wicket-keeper. He took his eye off the ball there.”

There’s also a lot of confusing talk about borders. “Yes, that’s another area where I had to put Michel right,” confirms Raab. “It’s actually called a boundary, and it’s made of rope. So all this talk about hard borders and soft borders is really a load of nonsense.”

The proposed border – or boundary – checkpoints is another non-issue, according to Raab. “The umpire’s decision is final,” he said. “The only technological solution you need is a TV camera to check whether the ball touched the rope. I told him that. It knocked him for six!”

Raab revealed how progress in the Brexit talks were progressing. “It’s two hours of cut and thrust,” he said. “Then you stop for lunch. Then two more hours. Then a tea break. Then two final hours, shake hands, and all down the pub to get bladdered! The whole thing takes up to five days, and if there is no result, you call it a draw.”

And the finer points of negotiation are finally clarified. “When you are in, you go out, and when you are out, you go in,” explained Raab. “That’s how cricket, I mean Brexit, works.”

The latest test had been a long drawn out, attritional affair. “Captain May is still at the crease!” claims Raab. “She is batting for Britain. No balls, that’s Barnier’s problem, no balls.”

The situation is finely poised. May is playing for time, trying to avoid defeat against Barnier’s straight and accurate deliveries. But there is a break in play while Barnier insists on having a backstop, and May is reluctant to allow it, whatever the rules say.

It looks like Brexit may have to be decided by the Duckworth-Lewis method.

Nigel Farage to star in Only Fools & Horses remake

It seems not a week goes by without another of Britain’s best-loved sitcoms getting a makeover. This time it’s the turn of Only Fools & Horses, which the BBC have announced is getting a reboot under a new title, “Only Brexiters & Unicorns”.

The show will be written by Jim Sullivan, son of John Sullivan who wrote the original. On being asked about the viability of a remake, he had this to say:

“Only Fools & Horses has always reflected the times – Del and Rodney moved with the times, so it can be updated to any time period and will still work in principle, as long as you get the characters right.”

Half the work in getting the characters right is the casting, and the cast looks promising. The part of Del Boy in this updated version will be played by Nigel Farage. He bangs out the old catchphrases “you know it makes sense!” and “this time next year we’ll be millionaires!” with absolute conviction – and an ever-dwindling bank balance in the case of the latter.

Del’s long-suffering brother Rodney, who doesn’t approve of Del’s schemes but still goes along with them, is here played by Jeremy Corbyn, while the role of old seadog Uncle Albert, who tries to talk them out of it with his old tales that always begin with the catchphrase “during the war”, has been given to John Major.

Other supporting roles have also been allocated: the idiot Trigger who would always spout total rubbish yet believe it firmly, will be played by Theresa May, while the snobbish Boycie will be played by Jacob Rees-Mogg.

The new version will depict life in post-Brexit Britain, just as the old one depicted life under Thatcher’s Britain in the 1980s. Del and Rodney are the same as ever, traders trying to make it in a broken country. Although this time there is humour to be derived from the sudden absence of European health & safety standards in the country.

The pilot episode features a nod to the original with a remake of the scene where Del falls through the gap in bar. In this version, Nigel Farage’s version of the character attempts to sue the pub after falling and hurting himself, but is scuppered by a safety notice in plain sight which he failed to spot, warning people not to lean against the bar when the hatch is up. When it transpires that the safety notice was an EU directive, he attempts to blame the EU for restrictive health & safety measures, completely forgetting that they were designed to stop him from having his fall in the first place.

Other episodes will include the characters disregarding more EU health & safety regulations to clean a chandelier on the cheap, and acquiring some British-made inflatable sex dolls that have accidentally been fitted with a dangerous explosive gas.

The remake will hit our screens in March 2019, so have a watch. You know it makes sense.

Brexiters reject multiple universe theory after a parallel UK voted Remain

The divisions in the UK have created a rift in the space-time continuum. Clever boffins have peeked through this rift to discover another, parallel universe. In this alternative vision, the UK voted overwhelmingly to Remain in the EU.

Naturally this has upset ardent Brexiters. Presented with indisputable evidence, they have queued up to rubbish it.

“Non est ad astra mollis e terris via”, said Jacob Rees-Mogg. “This common phrase, which requires no interpretation from oneself, should teach one to keep one’s feet on the ground. Reaching for the stars is tantamount to blasphemy, and positing a parallel universe is a contradiction of God’s almighty law. Those who trek through stars would be well to remember this: ire fortiter quo nemo ante iit.”

Others were less eloquent. Andrew Bridgen, MP for NW Brexit-shire, thundered “It’s all a load of old codswallop, innit?” Bridgen, who is due to be replaced by a cheese sandwich before the next election, is clearly in a bit of a pickle.

Seeking guidance amid the bluster and waffle, LCD Views spoke to clever dick Alec Smartt. “I have passed through the rift, and brought back evidence,” said Smartt. He waved a copy of a newspaper. “This is a copy of the Daily Mail from June 2016. Its headline reads, ‘Stay sane, vote Remain!’. The article praises the EU, claiming it brings stability and prosperity to the UK!”

The paper looked genuine enough. It was full of articles mocking fat celebrities next to pieces about low self-esteem. There was a special feature about house prices. Yet it was all consistent with a country at ease with its place in Europe.

Smartt also produced an edition of The Guardian from 2018, incoherently promoting the madcap opinions of fringe activist Boris Johnson.

The rift healed itself very quickly, claimed Smartt, leading his opponents to wonder which drugs he was on, and where they could get hold of some.

Governing party confirms eating itself alive is just the entree

News today on the menu the United Kingdom’s governing party is working its way through and it’s quite a feast.

”We’re eating ourselves alive clearly,” David Davis, former cabinet sous chef agreed, “Once we’ve hacked each other to pieces, roasted our limbs over an open fire made of furniture in the cabinet office, basted all that with a slurry made out of leaves from the magic money tree mixed with the liquified aspirations of millions, eaten the lot while belching loudly and singing ‘Rule Britannia’, then whoever is left standing is going on to the next course.”

And the next course is the Labour Party?

”Ha! Not while old Corbyn keeps saying ‘we’re leaving the EU’, no, he’s the one supplying the root vegetables for the feast, grown in his own allotment. We’re doing the meat. Fat of the land.”

Then who?

”All of you of course! Automotive sector, you’re a tasty dish. The rules say the crockery has to be smashed after the course is eaten. So too aerospace and pharmaceuticals. The NHS, and any business really that can’t exist as a rag and bone operation. Gobble. Gobble. Yum.”

But what about financial services? Are you chowing down on those too? Say in between a round of further cuts to welfare allowance and eligibility?”

”Ooo, don’t worry about financial services, most of them will just run off and stay in the category of diners. Which is good as we need them to supply the take-away bags.”

So who is going to clean up after you’ve finished gorging yourself on the country?

”Anyone who has shorted the pound of course! They’ll count their earnings as they wipe their lips and look for dessert. Those dishes are your rights. Those are finger licking good.”

Well, maybe once you’ve eaten yourselves alive you’ll be too stuffed to dine on the rest of us.

”Ha! We’re just wetting our appetites right now. We’re the entree. Sixty five million people and more, your wealth and your rights, they are the main course.”

Bon appetit.