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Lord Frost to negotiate successful British surrender in The Great Sausage War

THE LORDLY ONE : GLOBAL BRITAIN’S GREATEST DIPLOMATIC EXPORT, LORD FROST, is to travel to Brussels today in a vintage Spitfire to negotiate the terms of the British surrender in the Great Sausage War.

The decision of Boris Johnson to despatch his human shield to Brussels came as a surprise to many, until they realised he’d “already lost interest” in the banger based blow up after seeing a woman he has yet to impregnate.

Lord Frost will travel in the Spitfire on the outside of the aircraft to make room for the pilot. He will be strapped to the fuselage and to all appearances will look like a bouncing and very dumb bomb.

“We’ve sent word ahead to Brussels not to be alarmed by the manner of Lord Frost’s arrival,” a 10 Downing Street source told LCD Views. “And not to worry when the pilot releases his payload without landing and does a sharp turn to home.”

There are no expectations that Lord Frost will be injured in his fall to earth as he is expected to land on his head, that being his centre of gravity due to the density of the bone.

The timing of the talks comes ahead of the G7 meeting in Cornwall where Mr Johnson will have to talk face to face with the US President Joe Biden, who is said to already have a lengthy list of issues to browbeat the British PM on without having to talk to “that darn brat about wurst!”

The surrender of the British will be presented as a great victory at home so all patriots can remain safe in their belief that Brexit was a good idea and not the decision of a fridge full of silly sausages.

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BREAKING : Downing Street orders British Army to train soldiers to march without bending the knee

ANTI-WOKE WATCH : Downing Street is reportedly so concerned about the spread of “wokeness” through the UK’s public institutions that they have moved to protect the army from any incursions of wrong thought.

Clearly you can’t protect minds from ideological impurities with giant warships using borrowed planes or tanks stuck in the go slow lane, you have to use more subtle techniques.

“Hence the instruction to train soldiers to march without bending their knees,” a 10 Downing Street source told LCD Views. “It’s genius. Alexander Boris de pfeffel Something hit on it yesterday afternoon in the arts and crafts session that followed the standard long lunch.”

The retraining will begin immediately with all enlisted soldiers to be marched up and down squares at their barracks until they’re finally drilled.

“We’ve drafted in some Russian military attaches to help. They’ve been very enthusiastic. Most of them were here anyway on sightseeing tours of England’s famous cathedral towns. But we’ve plenty of archive footage to assist in the training too.”

Once the retraining is complete there will be mass public displays of the stiff legged march. The bunting will be hung and patriotic citizens encouraged to hold tea parties, regardless of the R rate at the time.

“We’ll have to train specially chosen members of the public to conga without bending their knees too. Maybe also a special salute that recognises all the lessons we’ve forgotten from WW2. It’s going to be very dramatic.”

The code name for the new directive is also evocative of times gone by.

“Operation Goosestep. It’s what the people voted for after all back in 2016. The Prime Minister is just fulfilling the will of the people by rebirthing the nation.”

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U.K. advises countries hit by international aid cuts to get into international arms sales

BORIS JOHNSON IS A FAMOUS LIBERAL : The United Kingdom’s Prime Minister is leading the G7 this week with a display of the exciting possibilities of being elected to government.

While some daft people seem to expect elected governments not to break manifesto commitments unless circumstances prevent them being implemented, Mr Johnson isn’t having any of that boring nonsense. He’s showing the big boys that you can get elected and act like a tyrant and disregard all your prior promises.

“Breaking the manifesto commitment to maintain International Aid spending at a fraction of that committed to dodgy PPE deals with Tory donors is an example of democracy in action,” a 10 Downing Street source told LCD Views. “It will show Biden what he’s up against too when he tries to grab Boris by the ear and twist it over Northern Ireland. Look buddy, we’ll break whatever commitments we choose and it doesn’t matter if it potentially means dull people in faraway places die.”

The decision to lower Global Britain’s aid spending will hit some of the world’s poorest people where it hurts. Namely food, water and medicine. But No 10 has some sound advice.

“For too long we’ve given to places like Yemen with one hand and taken away with the other,” the source admits. “We both sell the bombs that are dropped on their civilian populations to devastating effect and we pay for them to drink clean water at the ensuing funerals. This is a key plank of our international business deals with arms sales. And I’d like to thank the Royals for hosting all those events to help us sell the arms. It’s a team effort at team GB!”

But what are the world’s poorest people supposed to do once the aid cuts bite?

“Don’t come here! Ha! Imagine the look on Patel’s face? No. Stay home and get into international arms sales yourself. We make billions and billions every year from them. Given how many of the bombs fall on the heads of the poor you’d think they’d have worked out it was good business by now!”

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Swedish to become official EU language to really confuse the English

THEY NEED ENGLISH MORE THAN WE DO: Leaving the EU has had disastrous consequences for the bloc. English is no longer permissable as a lingua franca, since Leave means Leave and we got our language back. 

Naturally this left the EU in crisis mode, and liable to collapse at any minute. 

Sweden stepped into the void. Deprived of their annoyingly fluent English, the Swedes proposed using Swedish instead. Unfortunately for the English, nobody on the UK negotiating team understands Swedish, with all their funny punctuation marks and Viking overtones. 

Linguists pointed out that the Swedish language, like its furniture, is a self-assembly flat pack affair. This may be so, but the instructions are utterly impenetrable to Lord Frost and his cronies.

Ancient Greek and Latin were originally put forward as strong and modern candidates, but were eventually defeated by the Germans on penalties. Eventually Swedish was chosen, in order to really confuse the Brits.

There are many advantages to this. Firstly, the Daily Express does not know whether to be ecstatic about regaining sovereignty over the Great British Language, or outraged that the bloc it was so desperate to leave no longer wants the English either. 

Secondly, it means that the ongoing negotiations with the UK will be conducted in a language the British do not understand. This means that Lord Frost, in his desperation to meet his Waterloo, will sign anything put in front of him, so long as they assure him that The Winner Takes It All.

Frost, though, is considered equally non-fluent in many European languages, his disdain qualifying him to present the UK segment in the next Eurovision Song Contest. His grasp of English itself is not as strong as you might hope, given that it took him 5 months to read and understand the NI Protocol. 

Swedish is a fantastic language. It allegedly has 17 different words for gammon. 

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Dido Harding says Track & Trace expectations were too high as “I’m a fucking jockey! Not a public health expert!”

CASHIN’ IN AND CASHIN’ OUT : GLOBAL TRACK AND TRACE SUPERSTAR DIDO HARDING has taken a few moments out of her search for the Loch Ness Monster to talk to the press about her time running the UK’s world beating Track & Trace service.

Harding gave the interview while wearing a 24ct gold suit and a bespoke neck torc made entirely of brass. The reason for talking now was to reassure everyone that if she gets to run the NHS we will all get exactly what we expect.

LCD Views doubts Harding will head up the NHS and suspects the story is just a dead cat. However we are currently run by complete bellends so anything is possible. The least we can do is let Dido explain what happened with track and trace.

“That’s not my fault,” Ms Harding shrugged. “I’m a jockey. Exactly what did you expect when I’ve already failed at a mobile phone company? Yeah, let’s get her to set up from scratch an infectious disease track, trace and isolate service. Sheer bloody genius don’t you think? Let’s use our corporate donors who also have zero experience and generally screw up everything but accepting the public cash. Megabrain stuff. Especially as there was already a vast network of public health assets experienced at the task who just needed the resources.”

While Harding’s invented self-awareness in her media round may reassure some, most will remain concern she is a prime example of how fast you can fail upwards in the Tory chumocracy.

“If you’ve got any problems with my work take it up with the anti-corruption tsar. He’s my husband. And yes, we are laughing at you. You’re pathetic.”

The interview round was terminated abruptly at that point, although it did take Harding some time to leave the studio due to the weight of her suit.

“Best if you go first,” she muttered. “I’ll crawl away quietly into a corner with all this gold until I’m needed again.”

*naughty puppy on torn chair used as image as Shutterstock offers you a naughty puppy on a chair when you search for Dido Harding. Well.

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Lord Frost accuses EU of spying after shock discovery they can read what he writes in English

DO YOU SPEAK ENGERLISH : LORD Frost DID not GET to WHERE he IS today BY god GIVEN talent ALONE. The EU would do well to recognise this.

“He’s onto them, those wily Europeans,” a 10 Downing Street source told LCD Views. “He knows they’re spying on him and almost certainly his boss. The fuss they’re making over what LORD Frost has written for the domestic audience over the travesty of the Brexit deal proves it. Who would negotiate such a self-defeating and dangerous agreement? Certainly not an Englishman!”

The discovery of the EU spying on the UK’s Brexit superman did come as a “SHOCK” but not a surprise to seasoned Eurosceptics. Be they mild on that special spectrum or all the way through to foaming at the mouth and completely oblivious of anything EU related functions.

“He’s going to come up with a code to communicate to the GREAT BRITISH PUBLIC that’ll leave the EU floundering. They won’t know what’s coming next. They’ll be outfoxed and in disarray.”

The plan is to begin writing in Olde English.

“They maybe able to read what Frost writes down in modern English due to their underhand attempts to educate their populations in foreign languages, but wait until they’re stumbling about Chaucer’s English. We’ll have the last laugh then. They’ll have no idea what we’re up to with international law when they’re too distracted trying to work out why ‘s’ is now ‘f’!”

But exactly how did the EU gain access to Lord Frost’s writings?

“They’ve been reading our newspapers,” the source says. “Came as a bloody shock to us. We don’t read theirs. Not that many of us could even if we were interested. You just wait until the next completely disingenuous, historically inaccurate bit of propaganda for the domestic audience is published in The Telegraph or The Express in olde English. Old Barnier will be lost for words. We will have them agreeing to abandon the principles of the single market in no time at all.”

Global Britain – if it seems like we’re being run and represented by idiots, it’s because we are.

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Foreign aid budget to be replaced by speech about the benefits of the British Empire

EAR TO THE TRACKS : The United Kingdom’s parliament is to debate today what to do about thirsty and hungry foreigners.

Clearly Global Britons do not want foreign types turning up on their green and pleasant land. We go there to look at them as we please, but it’s not done for them to come here. It’s about place in the natural order of the world. Indeed, the cosmos.

“It’s a bit rum for anyone to think they can just turn up at your door and walk right into your home,” the Tory MP for Fhatfharce-on-Phlegm will say.

“In the days of the Empire foreign types only came to England when we invited them by slapping a pair of manacles on them and transporting them at Her Majesty’s leisure to be gawked at by the metropolitan elite. What for Brexit if not to keep people out?”

Good question.

“This is the problem with the foreign aid budget. It just fills up bellies and gives these cunning chaps enough energy to cross the Sahara, navigate the slave markets of Libya, book passage with a tour operator to cross the Mediterranean before waltzing through Europe and swimming the English Channel. You should see the size of their forearms by the time they arrive! Terrifying. And once they get here? Well, the same lack of ambition that drove them in the first place will soon see them lazing about a holiday camp in Kent. I will be voting to end foreign aid to stop people fleeing British made munitions once and for all!”

While these arguments for spending less overseas on the needy are obvious, what to replace the foreign aid with is more ticklish.

“It’s quite simple,” the Tory MP for Nostalgia and Property will explain, “we give the foreigners a recorded speech about the benefits of the British Empire. Once they are reminded of the industry of their ancestors who built all those railways, under the sensible direction of Englishmen, they will feel inspired to set to the rubble of their homes and rebuild. There really is no reason for anyone to risk offending patriotic British voters by turning up at our home.”

Global Britain – it’s only for Brits, and maybe not even them.

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The Great British Potato War – 1.1 In the Land of The Blind

The Great British Potato War – 1.1 In the Land of The Blind

“If an Englishman’s home is his castle, what then is an Englishman’s village?” – from “The Graffiti of Raylee Public Lavatories – Collector’s Edition”, page 34.

I know what an Englishman’s village is. It is impenetrable. Clearly. Castle after castle nestled together like an illustration from a chocolate box lid. But to be truly formidable a castle must have a defensive perimeter that is not just more castles. Stout and sturdy walls built of stone in the traditional English fashion of the late 11th century.

This is why I organised the construction of the defensive barricade around my village of Raylee, before I went to war. It was a simple enough task. The slogan wrote itself, “Get Barricades Done!”, and that’s 99% of any major infrastructure task completed.

To find the necessary materials I just had to go around the town and scavenge. The streets and pavements of Raylee were overflowing with lightwood pallets of the kind used to deliver building supplies for domestic construction. No one knew where all the builders went in 2021 or why, but the supplies they abandoned were put to good use. Mostly by creating new and patriotic recipes. This was an example of the unique ingenuity of the British. There weren’t any tradesmen left who knew what to do with the supplies, but there were plenty of hungry mouths to feed.

“What are you doing Mr French?” one of the local lads asked me.

“Why you carrying that pallet?”

It was Cyclops. He was always popping up when you least expected him. A scrawny pup who lost an eye as an infant.

“It’s well known your father voted against the people.” I didn’t want him hanging about. It was obvious the loss of an eye was God visiting the sins of the father upon the boy.

“He did not. He told me himself he took his own pen into the voting booth and made the best choice for Blighty.” The boy shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled along beside me. “Do you know where he is Mr French?”

“Private French to you Cyclops.”

“But you’re not in the army.”

“Every able bodied man is in the patriot’s army. Except your dad.”

That shut him up. He trailed along, kicking stones stones over the road, hoping to be involved.

“Do you know where my dad is?” Always this. Always.

“In a labour camp I expect. Labouring for redemption under Cardinal Petal. Or perhaps he got lucky and was deported.”

“But he’s a son of Raylee, just like you.”

“Being born in a country doesn’t make you its son. You achieve citizenship by proving yourself mental” – I kicked a raised cobblestone at that point and cut myself short.

“Mental? We don’t use that term anymore Mr French.”

I glared at him for a few moments. The boy clearly had a dose of the woke. I waited for the pain in my foot to subside.

The choice of pallets for the barricade was symbolic. Who doesn’t recognise one and think of the vanished British tradition of house building?

“My mum burns these in our fireplace,” Cyclops said. He took a hold of the pallet so I set it down.

“Keep going,” I ordered.

“Is this a job?”

“Zero hours like all the rest. Carry it to the edge of town and don’t dawdle.”

He nodded and began dragging the pallet along the road, straining his skinny arms, but determined to prove himself to me.

Other residents merely stood and watched as Cyclops struggled to the outskirts of Raylee. I smiled at them and shouted “Get Barricades Done!”. 

It took Cyclops many hours but eventually he had enough pallets for me to build the defensive fortification.

The gaps in the pallets made it easy to see through them, take aim and fire. Although this would not be tested in the heat of battle until I was far away, I proved the soundness of my design by organising a drill. This consisted of taking turns to both attack my own barricade and defend it against myself.

My wife came out to watch. She sat herself with her knitting in a fold-up camping chair. Click-clack went her knitting needles. I used that to good effect, imagining them as the sounds of a Lewis Gun.

“Knit faster!” I ordered when attacking myself. “I want the air full of lead!”

I was using a stick as a rifle. I made a show of affixing a make believe bayonet and reloading every so often. Everything had to appear realistic.

Unfortunately realism was all too close to hand when I was injured defending myself against myself. I was rolling over one of the pallets and a large wooden splinter lodged into my left buttock. I went with the pain, rolling off the pallet into the dirt and screaming.

“Medic!” I shouted. I was too immersed in my role play to stop. “Stretcher barriers!”

My wife, dependable soul that she is, rushed over to me.

“Oh dear Mark! You don’t half have a splinter in the buttocks. Lie still now. On your belly. Cut out the playacting. There’s a good fellow. Be still!”

She sat on the small of my back.

“I might need to get my shears and cut away your trousers so I can have a proper butcher’s. I’ve not seen a splinter this large in all my days. Can you walk?”

“No,” I whispered. “Leave me. Carry the fight to the enemy! Tell my wife I loved her.”

“It’s not yet time for all that you silly sausage,” she said. She tried to pull the splinter out but the pain was too much.

“What’s up Mrs French?” Cyclops again.

“Private French has gone and gotten himself a shrapnel wound in the backside,” she replied.

“He’ll be lucky to keep the leg,” Cyclops said, matter of factly, his hands in his patched pockets.

“What do you know about battlefield medicine?” I shot back.

“He almost threaded the eye of the needle!” my wife blurted out and they both laughed. She bounced up and down on top of me so hard I could barely breathe.

“Call a chopper!” I ordered. She bounced again and I farted so loudly it started a nearby cat.

“Grenade!” Cyclops shouted and made a show of ducking for cover.

“Oh Mark. That is atrocious!” my wife was having the time of her life.

“He’s delirious Mrs French. You best get him to the doctor.”

“Right enough Cyclops. Come on. You bring his rifle and I’ll be his crutches.”

“That stick there? Is that the rifle?”

“So it is.”

“It’s a good stick. I couldn’t have chosen better if I was playing army men.”

Suddenly another voice entered the fray.

“What’s up Mrs French?” It was Clarence, the butcher. A fat, red faced, bald man always with his bloody apron on. Behind him waited Ms Finch. As bird like as her name. Her lipstick was smeared across her cheeks. That caught Mrs French’s attention.

“Oi! Where did you get lippy from?”

“I make it myself from red dust and tallow,” Ms Finch replied. But she looked nervous. She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hands. I had to groan dramatically to get my so called medical team to focus.

“My Mark has gone and gotten himself a beastly splinter in his backside.” My wife pointed at the splinter. I” think I can see blood coming through his trousers. That’ll be a bugger to get out.”

“Oh dear. Shall I help you get him home?” Ms Finch asked.

“I think we best take him to the doctor. Maybe even Accident and Emergency.” Clarence, the genius.

“No good Clarence. Our A&E was closed to teach people to take personal responsibility for their health, remember? And we dare not try and take him to the nearest one over in Ballocks. The wait will be so long he’ll be healed before he’s seen by a doctor. Or the wound will fester. I’m not sure how they amputate a single buttock?”

Suddenly another rubbernecker weighed in. Mrs Formaldyhide, the pharmacist. I would bet my last penny she was showing off in her work clothes too. People with jobs still! Just can’t help themselves.

“What’s wrong with old Mark then?”

“He’s got a splinter in his backside!” My doting wife, Cyclops, Ms Finch and Clarence all said together like some bloody Greek chorus.

“Well. Let’s have him along to the new private infirmary. He can get a spare bed there and if he promises to let them use his story in their online ads. He’ll get a 10% discount and a lower interest rate on the loan repayments to pay for treatment.”

And off we went. The rest is a little blurred, being pain killing medication, some paperwork I had to sign, the bright lights of a surgery and then a painful recovery. I had to lie on my front for a full week. But I remained upbeat throughout my recovery and shook hands with everyone in the infirmary.

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Matt Hancock blames parents “refusing to homeschool” for spread of variant in schools

MATT THE APP : Health Secretary Matt Hancock has hit out at the UK’s “holiday obsessed” parents today after discovering an alarming rise of the new Delta variant in England’s schools.

The discovery was doubling shocking as no one ever before in the history of the world has learned that school age children can both “catch”, and more surprisingly, “transmit” cold viruses to parents and grandparents.

“We’ve got our best people working on it,” Mr Hancock told reporters. “Dido, David Davis, Redwood. If things get really confusing we’ll have to draft in Jenkyns, Bridgen, Francois and maybe even Dorries. But we will get to the bottom of just how long it’s been possible for school age kids to catch and pass on this new flu. Cold. Rash. Whatever it is. In the meantime it’s best if parents consider their own part in it all. Initially by having children to begin with. And then by expecting the state to educate them so they can pretend to be working from home. It’s scandalous.”

Mr Hancock went on to level an additional excoriating dressing down to parents of state school children in particular.

“Look at Eton. Look at the precautions they take. If parents cared for their children they would pay for their education in safe environments. And I won’t hear any complaints about paying for education through taxes. Everyone knows taxes are for Tory Party donors.”

In spite of the Health Secretary’s concerns school children across the country will return en masse to schools tomorrow where the windows may or may not be open to ventilate the class rooms. And following on from days when the new case count already well exceeds last autumn’s when the PM refused the “circuit breaker”.

“I would advise parents to teach their children to hold their breath. Six or seven hours at a stretch will help stop the potential next massive wave of completely preventable death that we’ve once again allowed to build because I’ll be buggered if anyone in government understands the word exponential. Whatever you do don’t ask the Chancellor! He thinks the health of the population and the economy are separated at birth!”

Mr Hancock later clarified he means parents should teach their children to hold their own breath and not the parent’s breath and that would be near impossible.

”Oh, if anyone works out what elimination means please let us know that too. We’ve stumped and New Zealand doesn’t exist. You can’t learn anything from there.”

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BREAKING : MASS PANIC as Boris Johnson declares he will save summer like he saved Christmas

SAVE YOURSELVES : Dramatic scenes across the country today after an impromptu address to the nation by part time Prime Minister, and full time refurbisher, Boris Johnson.

The scenes of chaos occurred instantaneously even before he had finished giving his speech, which it is rumoured was only scripted by “excessive quantities of champagne and presumably some claret”.

Our correspondent was on the scene as the M4 filled with frantic motorists attempting to escape to whatever valley or hill they could.

“It’s mania as cars and vans hastily packed with possessions and families jam onto the M4, M3 and M25,” they reported. “I saw one vehicle in which the dog was strapped to the bonnet and a birdcage tied to the roof with someone’s grandmother. The hard shoulder is already a race track and police appear to have joined the tidal wave rather than attempt to contain it.”

It’s believed Nicola Sturgeon and Mark Drakeford have convened an emergency summit with the leader of the newly created Republic of Kernow and are expected to agree to close all borders to England so they “don’t screw up all our efforts like every other time.”

People who have not yet watched the PM’s speech are warned not to. Don’t even catch up with outtakes on social media.

It’s thought the major trigger for the debacle was Mr Johnson’s decision to focus on the rising viral case load. It is already over the daily total which failed to trigger the “circuit breaker” last September. Only vaccines can save us now.

The exact phrase that caused the mass movement of people was Mr Johnson saying he was going to save the summer “like he saved Christmas.”