LCD Views

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.

The NHS is set for a record cash windfall as the opinions of Iain Duncan Smith and other ERG members are to replace GP consultations in a move saving NHS billions.

”The initiative was Jacob Rees-mogg’s idea,” an aide to Irritable Duncan Smith told our health correspondent,

“they were having a WhatsApp group discussion over what’s the desired, mandatory rate of birth to compel women by law to meet after Brexit, to make Britain great again, when someone decided they should call an expert in the field of reproduction,

”No one wanted to talk to Boris though, so they decided to set the birth rate at the level decided by whoever had the strongest opinion.”

This breakthrough in future governance of the United Kingdom led to a light bulb moment.

”It’s already been trialled successfully on Radio 4 news programmes for the last couple of years anyway. Whenever some politically motivated, so called expert bangs on opining over the field they’ve spent decades working in, Sarah Sands ensures some objectively focused, non-political blowhard from the ERG is on for “balance”. You know to scream project fear and deny reality.”

NHS bosses are yet to give their opinion on the move.

”Whatever they say will be less qualified than Iain anyway,” the aide said, “so what’s it matter what they say? Just think of the money saved? It’s an end to NHS austerity right now.”

The opinions will be available on prescription. Just phone Iain up and describe what is ailing you and he’ll tell you what he thinks it is. We can have a fire sale of all that over hyped medical equipment now.”

But what if Iain says you need an operation? That your condition is life threatening?

”It won’t happen. Iain doesn’t do Project Fear. He sticks solely to project whatever he thinks the backers of Brexit want to hear.”