LCD Views

SMART BORDER : Great relief today at the announcement from the Home Office that border collies are to be used at Dover as the post Brexit border, as they’re smarter than anything a f*cking Brexiter will dream up.

”We’re very pleased to have finally nailed it,” Said Javid told LCD Views during a lunch date by the Thames.

We had chosen a pop up bistro called the Full Metal Balls-up, which serves traditional English war vegan cuisine, for the interview, as we wanted him to suffer as much as we knew we would.

”Would you mind passing the gluten free red gherkin sauce?” he asked, “these freedom turnip fries are a little over cooked. Here, share some of my meat free gammon substitute? I don’t think I can finish the whole serving. The slate is almost overflowing.”

That’s very kind of you. How did you hit on the idea of border collie sheep dogs for a border?

”Because they already have border as part of their name,” Mr Javid shrugged, “so it seemed a natural fit.”

They’re certainly highly intelligent and they’re good at organising chaotic herds.

”Exactly. It’ll be like watching re-runs of One Man and His Dog, as trucks are seamlessly selected and herded through the chokepoint. One by one by one. Or the whole ten mile tailback if necessary.”

They will also present a very welcoming face to visitors to the U.K.

Sajid paused, half pint of organic wheatgrass miracle mind soothing eraser tonic to his lips.

”Well, don’t print that, if Boris or Jeremy reads that it’ll be another magic fix on the trash heap.”

Okay. Noted. So when does training of the dogs begin?

”Training? I thought they’d know what to do on instinct? That’s how we govern now. What do you feel most strongly appeals to what you perceive to be your base. Do that.”

That explains a lot. Well, good luck with it. Make sure you ensure no one takes a tennis ball down to Dover once you’ve installed the border collies?

”Why not?”

Because you risk the border becoming distracted if anyone throws one.

”Why is that?”

You haven’t given this much thought, have you?

”You weren’t listening. They have border in their name. It’s perfect.”

Sajid Javid, thanks for lunch.

“No one will be able to say that after October 31st! Ha!”

World famous British stationery manufacturer Fumble and Fudge have been forced to issue a product recall of their Brexit pencils today after customers discovered that they’re pointless.

”Let’s be clear,” newsagent correspondent Green Searchlight said, “both the pencils and world famous Brexiters Fumble and Fudge are pointless.”

But can’t customers just sharpen the pencils? They maybe unhappy, but they’d still have a pencil.

”There’s no lead in the pencils either.”

Okay. Viagara?

”Now you’re just being silly,” Green admonished, “they are made out of badly compressed paper and not wood or hardened plastic. Even if you did find a Brexit pencil with lead in it, I wouldn’t try and use it.”

Surely the pencils were extensively tested before being released onto the British and European market?

”Daniel Hannan owns the factory, so what do you think?”

He got other people to test them out at their own risk?

”Correct. It didn’t go well, even without points. Everyone who was chosen to test was signed up to receive the Leave EU newsletter.”

Oh no.

”Yes. There were numerous blindings and some testers tried to clean the wax out of their ears, but managed to poke themselves in the eyes and keep poking.

And quite a few injuries that required discretion in accident and emergency.”

But they still released them onto the market?

”They expected to profit to the tune of £350M a week, regardless of how shoddy the product is.”

They aren’t I suppose.

”No. The personal injury claims alone are costing Fumble and Fudge that much.”

So what next?

”It’s hard to say at this point,” Green said, “the company has issued a profit warning but is adamant it will release its Brexit pencil sharpeners on time in spite of numerous testers cutting their noses off trying to sharpen pencils they’d first inserted into their nostril.”

It’s about time Fumble and Fudge were shut down before they do anymore harm.

“I’ve been following the company for a long time and I couldn’t agree more. Here, would you like to share some fudge?”

Who made that?

”Fudge, Fudge, Fudge and sons. They claim to have eliminated the ingredient that was causing the stomach ulcers.”

I think I’ll pass, but thanks all the same.

Marvin, the Paranoid Android, has been chosen to park trucks in Kent post Brexit and he’s not impressed.

“I think you ought to know I’m feeling very depressed,” Marvin told us while standing despondently by our water cooler, “When they called me into the prime minister’s office and told me what I would be doing for the next forty thousand years, well, I told them it won’t work.”

They didn’t listen to you?

“No one ever listens to me,” Marvin sighed, “I am at a rough estimate sixty billion times more intelligent than your prime minister. I explained this to her and she just gave me a non-disclosure agreement to sign. It was very depressing.”

But surely you take it as a compliment? It will take more than a genius to solve the border issues in Kent next year.

“You’re not listening either. Neither is your water cooler. I offered them an escape plan, but they just shrugged.”

What ideas did you offer the prime minister?

“A million ideas. Mostly they were about escape, for her. Staying on the path they’ve set for this country points to certain economic death.”

Maybe if you were a bit more upbeat?

“I’m going to spend the next forty thousand years parking trucks in Kent, how upbeat do you suggest I should be? I have a brain the size of a planet.”

What if we let you take our water cooler with you, to keep you company?

“You’re as mean as they are. It’s already ignoring me.”

When do you start work? Isn’t it good to have a purpose?

“I’m just trying to die.”

Oh Marvin. We’re sorry. Goodbye.

The Emperor’s New Clothes, a haberdashery store located near the Palace of Westminster, has had to put a sign up warning its best customers it’s running out of stock.

LCD Views clearly doesn’t have any staff who shop there, so we sent along a correspondent down to the corner of Westminster Green to talk to some customers.

”I’m visibly distressed,” T May told us, “I’ve been shopping here since mid 2016. I buy a new suit every week. I particularly like the up cycled anchor chains they sell as necklaces. They give you a real atmosphere of what it must have been like to be a big ship, the Titanic, for example.”

And she wasn’t the only worried regular.

”Trump’s tariff war means I need a whole new ensemble, again!” a little boy called Liam F told us, “I don’t know how I’ll get us a trade deal if I don’t have the right suit for selling British made goods to tyrants. You know, easy clean stuff, in case you tour a local government facility while visiting.”

There were others too, most notably a bouncing, bullish, blonde chap.

”Now look here, this is fandaggerrel unpatriotic,” Boorish B flamepangled, “I’ve been telling our closest friends and neighbours to go whistle. The map of glorious, never ending gobstopping Global Britain is all pink!

And now I need their help due to a pesky little nervy thing. I need the full Bullingdon kit out to impress Johnny Foreigner!”

It’s clearly a concern. We hope supplies can be swiftly restocked.

”I don’t actually sell them anything,” the proprietor whispered, “they’re all nude!”

Just then we noticed a man with a whiny little voice beseeching a customer service assistant to sell him a pair of boxing gloves.

”This scary sociopath type is threatening to put me in a glass box on his desk!”

It wasn’t going well for him.

”Oh do shut up and go away,” the staff member told him.

We suspect the store will restock soon enough, reality supplies the shop.

A man who crashed a lorry into a house while drunk says the owner of the three bed semi knew what to expect when he bought the property.

”The whole front of the house is staved in,” the unfortunate homeowner told LCD Views.

They were clearly doing their best to keep calm, as they paced about with glass from the shattered windows crunching under their shoes.

”When we agreed to move to this new build we were told it would be a lovely community and we’d sense the warmth of traditional values.

The house was supposed to have a conservatory and an en suite and under floor heating. It’s got asbestos wallpaper, which is not lickable and worst of all the plumbing backs up and spews back out over the floor.

None of our friends want to visit either except that crazy distant relative who has the hots for our Nan. It’s a bit off.”

So you’re not happy with the decision to move?

“Look at the state of my house?!!!”

They shouted, as the chimney breast collapsed in a puff.

”They tell us we can’t move back. But I had my mate Dom look at the deeds and he says they’re dodgy as. We’re going to sue.”

Just then the toilet, largely intact still, begun to gurgle.

”Do you hear that? It’s really weird. Whenever that toilet goes off that guy whose been UKIP leader ten times, and now spouts propaganda for someone on LBC, you can hear him doing his radio show whenever the sewerage overflows. It gives me the creeps. Listen.”

They were right.

There’s more too.

“The GP surgery has been sold to Virgin. Southern rail were given the rail service, so that never runs.

And people keep shoving notes written in caps through our letter slot shouting about forming a volunteer neighbourhood watch, and if we don’t agree to patrol the neighbourhood to keep undesirables called snowflakes out then we don’t deserve to eat.

Then another mob, in sandals, keep knocking on the door asking if we’ve heard about the saviour JC and tell us very bluntly if we don’t join with them it’s our fault people are homeless. It’s a bit much.”

But as to the identity of the drunk driver? Who broke their home and laughed?

”It’s the real estate agent who convinced us to sell up and move here in the first place!” the broken home owner fumed, “Figel Narage! Of Cremlin and Narage and Wanks estate agents.”

But what was he doing driving a lorry drunk in the middle of the night?

”Apparnetly he’d been on a bender at the Hate and Fudge and spotted one of his ex-wife’s there who went after him claiming he only married her to get a burgundy passport after Brexit, or something.”

We did speak to Mr Narage but he only gave one statement.

”They knew what they were moving for. I don’t care what it says on the adverts for the house. The deeds have done the job. Best to shred them now. Ha!”

He opened his trench coat and offered us a ‘real’ Rolex next. We declined.

“Anyway,” he went on, “It’s the will of the roads that sometimes houses get smashed apart by drunk con artists in lorries who just happened to have possibly made an absolute mountain of cash on the quiet convincing people to sell excellent homes and buy poorly built new builds without proper planning permission.

They had their eyes wide open. It’s their own fault. Although I’m happy to help arrange a bank transfer via the Crimea if they’d like help refinancing?”

We will pass that along.

“They need to knuckle down and get behind watching the rest of the house collapse so they can pay to rebuild it,” he added, “they knew they were going to be swimming in sewerage or they wouldn’t have agreed to move.”

That all makes sense now. Thank you.