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Culture Minister lists “voting for lies on buses” as prime example of British values!

QUEUE POLITELY AT FOOD BANK PLEASE : THE CULTURE MINISTER Oliver Dowden is famous for having been bred specially for his job in a tub of British made yoghurt and it’s given him special insight into the culture of our country.

Happily he is willing to share his knowledge and to urge the BBC to help him celebrate British values, at risk of being broken down into component parts and flogged off.

To help the BBC in its task of banging the drum for Blighty Mr Dowden has drawn up a list of the British values that we will now all celebrate. Unless we wish to be taken to a re-education camp.

“Queuing. Politely at food banks,” Mr Dowden will regale the country with later, as he unleashes his agenda. “Also having to be shamed by footballers into feeding hungry children. That is a contemporary value. It just feels Victorian. Calling MPs fancy names and titles. Very British. Electing the most disreputable figure we can find in our political life as Prime Minister. It really shows us off to the world.”

The list is clearly going to be a long one as what we value is displayed by how we are currently behaving both at home and abroad.

“Cutting foreign aide in the middle of a global pandemic. That shows how we value charity. Decreasingly. Oh and letting Priti Patel loose on asylum seekers. Just fantastic.”

But there is one action in recent years that really nails contemporary Great Britain and it needs to be celebrated.

“Voting for liars and following their agenda. We really value that. Just look at all the people who voted for a giant lie on a bus! And look where we are now. The British value of a great sense of humour has never been more needed.”

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Liz Truss to revise Aussie FTA to include “commitment to vote for U.K. in Eurovision”

THROW ANOTHER INDUSTRY ON THE BARBIE : BREXIT SUPERSTAR Liz Truss is so annoyed at the nil points awarded to Global Britain at the recent Eurovision that she is going to do something radical.

“She’s not going to sing, don’t worry,” an aide claiming to work for the trade Tsar told LCD Views. “Although she says if the Eurovision contest ever opens up a category for spoken word poetry she’ll be right in there. She has an extensive back catalogue of verse written to celebrate Brexit.”

But the one thing Liz Truss can do is take a lead from her boss. She can agree deals, publicise and celebrate them before decrying them as basically a con on the British people.

“It was incredibly underhand of the Australian trade negotiators to behave as they did,” the aide informs. “Liz Truss will publicly call out their dirty deeds and say she is not going to stand for it. The UK-AUS FTA must now include a commitment from the Australians to vote for the UK Eurovision entry in all future competitions. Assuming we’re still invited. Furthermore they must recant how they voted last weekend and demand their points go to the UK.”

The move to ensure the UK never again receives nil points, no matter how many Italian au pairs they incarcerate at the border, will be a great boost to the British farming community.

“When we’ve paid off our farmers and replaced them with hormone stuffed beef imported from the other side of the world they’ll be able to retire knowing that when they watch Eurovision they’re not going to see the country they love embarrassed.”

The BBC has been ordered to support Ms Truss in her efforts by making a new documentary focused on Ms Truss’s efforts called “A Very British Sell Out”.

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The Great British Potato War – 1.0 The Brussels Cramps

“The average human shares 80% of their genes with the average potato. The patriot shares up to 100%.” – The Observations of Prime Minister William Bunsen

The fear of potato shortages was constant during The Great British Potato War. Hunger was always on the menu. The slogan “Get War Done!” kept us going. Three words which roused the mighty British bulldog from his slumber. I saw it as my duty to keep the men’s spirits high when their bellies were aching. There was endless bellyaching.

The soldiers under my command would whisper in the black fondant nights, “When will the proper British potatoes run out?”

I could not answer them. I would crawl between the pickets on our perimeter whispering my mantra, “Get War Done!”.

“What?” they would mouth back.

“Get War Done!”

“Oh. Okay.”

When we marched towards the enemies of the people a different slogan was called for.

“Believe in Great British Potatoes!” I cried it lustily. The men would throw their caps high and cry too! Good men. Men who valued freedom of speech. They would sell their lives dearly. “Trust in Prime Minister William Bunsen!” I encouraged them with that too. “Trust in Billy Burner”.

Of course, no one knew then if it were possible to eat a root vegetable that did not come in a packet with a Union Jack on it. Traitors at them. We knew that, but they weren’t God’s chosen race sprung fully formed from the soil of this sceptred isle. There were rumours in the dark years (before Parliament lent its sovereignty to the Executive in perpetuity) people did eat all manner of forrin foods. Padron Peppers from Spain, whatever they were. Kalamata Olives from the Peleponnese, ditto. And of course avocados, we all knew what they were, they were heresy! But I did not believe patriots had. Patriots would starve first before they let the green flesh of treason pass their lips.

[Ed. It is possible to eat a non-Union flagged root vegetable, but it results in a psychosomatic digestive disorder called by physicians, The Brussels Cramps.]

“Control British Fish!” was another robust slogan to keep spirits high. Ideologically so pure it glistened. The men responded well to it. Shouting about fish always stiffened spines. It said everything about who we are. A maritime superpower! An industrial powerhouse! A job exporting titan! A country that valued its fish above all else and wanted the world to know it.

When I was far from home, when I was bruised and bloodied, when I was burying my brothers in arms in haste in some sodden Surrey field, knowing we had seized back control of British fish kept me digging graves.

The good women of Raylee and Wick River Crossing*, where my regiment was raised, were loyal and sent us what food they could spare. Stout of frame. Round of hip. Busting of bosom. Rosy cheeked. Women you could rely on to be pregnant year on year when it was time to repopulate Brexitannia. When it was time to leave the office jobs, leave the mills and fulfill a woman’s Great British destiny to produce as many Great Britons as they could.

My wife, Mrs French, was prominent in village circles. There was no scandal, no indiscretion she was unable to ignore. She could patch your torn skin as easily as split trousers. Whenever the Government composed a new song for school children to sing you could be certain she would have the Raylee youth drilled within days.

“Make do and mend,” she’d say to the other women. “Here, let me show you how to make that one sock into two.”

If the traitors ever did breach the defences and capture Raylee you could be certain my wife would lead the resistance.

“Starve yourself so that I may eat,” I ordered her on the day we past out of town, headed for that cesspit of traitors. London. “Victory will see us feast!”

It was late in the afternoon. A glorious day, if you ignored the blowflies, if you shouldered past the dark clouds on the horizon, if you blocked your ears to the cries of the widows and orphans. A godly day. The sun sinking its inflamed buttock into the bank of clouds to the west, but enough rays to reflect off the bakelite buttons on my replica TA Catering Corp uniform. A sight to mist the eyes.

My hearty wife stood twisting a damp dish cloth in her firm hands. I wager it was soaked with her tears. She knew the moment had arrived when she must raise that sodden fabric and wave farewell.

“We will meet again,” I reassured her. “I don’t know where. I don’t know when. But we’ll meet again some sunny day.”

“Get War Done,” she replied, lowering her gaze and shaking her head.

“Control British Fish.”

She nodded. I suspect she could not trust herself to say the words she wanted to.

“Don’t beg me to stay,” I ordered her.

“I won’t,” she replied, her voice cracked. “Control British Fish.”

“I have to go. It’s my duty.”

“Go,” she agreed. “Please go.”

She hid her face in her dish cloth and sobbed.

“You did not fully understand the blazing star I was born under,” I told her. “I will uphold the will of the people.”

“Oh Mark, you fool.”

“Shush now. Only speak in three word sentences while I am away,” I ordered her. I moved in close to hold her hands, but she retreated. She would crumble at my touch.

“I will do,” she whispered. Good woman. God’s own.

“I am going to fulfil the will of the people.” I saluted her.

“Don’t miss me,” she muttered.

“I won’t! I will look after myself.”

I was following my destiny.

Destiny is all.

With courage and Union Flag branded munitions I could not fail.

*Raylee and Wick River Crossing was the birthplace of Private Mark French. In the 2016 EU Referendum it voted 98% to Leave the EU Tyranny. A source of great pride to Mark. A percentage confirmed in the Official Records of Brexitannia.

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COBRA meetings to be renamed “Champagne and Wallpaper hour” to ensure PM attends

FOLLOWING THE SCIENCE OF LAZINESS : It’s not just the BBC that needs a good, old fashioned shake up to ensure it is unfit for tomorrow. COBRA, the emergency committee that meets in times of national crisis, is also in the firing line after coming in for severe criticism.

“It’s a boring talking shop at the moment,” a 10 Downing Street source tells LCD Views. “Just grey men naysaying. There’s some nasty coffee and some stale sandwiches provided. You’d be lucky to get Svalbardi or even fffing Evian. It’s no wonder the PM can’t be bothered to turn up half the time. If you have to listen to a bunch of gloomsters talk the country down. The least you can expect is some good catering.”

Happily for the Prime Minister Tory Party donors are currently being canvassed to see who is prepared to chip in and save the nation.

“We are confident that the food and drink on offer at COBRA will be more in line with the Prime Minister’s expectations in future. Although having meetings in the morning is a dead cert fail. Disasters really need to be scheduled for after lunch. Sometime in the late afternoon, before dinner. COBRA only has itself to blame. And you can make a good case that the pandemic has been a bloody sight worse than it needed to be. Imagine if there was caviar, champagne and some girls dressed as old school Playboy bunnies on hand as waitresses? He wouldn’t have missed a meeting.”

Clearly if COBRA can’t lift its game, just like the BBC, it will have to be outsourced to private contractors, but it does have a chance if a donor can be found.

“We’ll be renaming it ‘The Champagne and Wallpaper Hour’. That way we’ll get both Boris and Carrie along and after the nibbles we can get down to the serious business of something like Montrachet 1978 from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti? You’ll see. Attendance will skyrocket. We’ll probably get the entire cabinet!”

Make COBRA Fun! – that might help too. There’s nothing that can’t be improved with a snappy slogan, not even a national crisis. Just think of “Get Brexit Done” if you doubt us!

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Downing Street refuse to confirm who Boris Johnson will marry in 2022

DEAD CAT RUNNING : Downbeat faces in 10 Downing Street this morning after the realisation that they’ve thrown the wedding dead cat onto the news cycle table a couple of days early.

The announcement of the future perfect event that Boris Johnson will have married again mid 2022 was planned to have happened this coming Wednesday just as Dom revealed everything about the pandemic bungling that we all already know. Classic.

“Someone leaked the news of the nuptials early,” a 10 Downing Street source told LCD Views. “Or maybe one of the planning notes was thrown out in the trash with some very expensive takeaway boxes? Either way it’s a problem. He may have to call the whole thing off. Which is actually his preference anyway now that his current partner has delivered.”

But there is still some fur to fly because although they announced Mr Johnson intends to wed again, careful reading of the press release shows they haven’t said to who.

“That’s some consolation. We can announce that on Wednesday. He hasn’t decided yet. It’s unlikely to be Carrie as that’s pushing the upper limit of credibility. Maybe Margaret Thatcher? If a spiritualist is prepared to take on the task of contacting her in Hell. Maybe Winston Churchill’s statue to completely own the woke. Maybe some new girl altogether. The suspense is great.”

Critics have suggested that Mr Johnson should marry the fishing industry as he’s already screwed it senseless. Now he “should make an honest industry of it.”

Other voices are urging the self-obsessed, country trashing, viral ripping sociopath to just get it over and done with and finally marry the love of his life. Namely “himself”.

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Priti Patel – “Doctor Lecter was doin’ a difficult job, actually, when he ate that liver. With a nice Chianti.”

THE SMIRK THAT LAUNCHED A THOUSAND SHITS : The Home Secretary is not one to allow professionals to languish under well founded accusations of inappropriate behaviour, bullying or breaking codes of conduct.

In an exclusive interview with the bull dog of Sunday morning chat shows, Andrew Marr, she defended yet another high profile figure who has come in for more than his fair share of stick.

“Well you know Andrew that I have the utmost respect for everyone in the medical profession,” Ms Patel stated, when asked about the ongoing accusations of cannibalism surrounding the psychologist Doctor Hannibal Lecter. “It is very stressful treatin’ disturbed individuals and sometimes decisions have to be made quick.”

Mr Marr wasn’t letting her off so easy though.

“But are fava beans really the most appropriate choice of legume to eat with a human liver? Or indeed offal from any source? You must admit there are serious questions to be asked also about the decision to use fine bone China?”

Ms Patel laid a lengthy smirk on Mr Marr. Disarming him with her world beating charm.

“Doctor Lecter was doin’ a difficult job, actually, when he ate that liver,” Ms Patel repeated herself.

“But he wasn’t merely eating the census taker’s liver. He was working and consuming alcohol at the same time. Isn’t it possible that this behaviour isn’t entirely professional and less than should be expected?”

“Doctor Lecter was doin’ a difficult job, actually,” Ms Patel reiterated once more, as if caught in a time loop, “When he ate that liver. With a nice Chianti.”

“Well if you think Chianti is the right wine we will have to leave it there. Although I would have gone for a Boudreaux.”

A recipe was then posted for viewers at home in case they also were mildly irritated when taking a census. Oh, and instruction for where to source the vintage of your choice.

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It’s a knockout: Harry and Wills cage fight sensation

In a shock development in the continuing Royal drama, Princes William and Harry have decided on a ‘once and for all’ battle to settle their differences.

Our inside information says that a ‘furious’ Harry issued the challenge after a major breach of protocol at the Duke of Edinburgh’s funeral. According to Brandreth’s Royal Funerary Etiquette, it is the responsibility of the spouse of the second child of the heir to the throne to carry the spare wheel of the ‘hearse, gun carriage or other wheeled vehicle in or upon which the monarch or spouse thereof may lie’. Instead, Catherine, the Duchess of Cambridge, carried the Land Rover wheel in the cortège. Harry was said by our source to be ‘fuming’ at the unprecedented breach, and labelled the slight as ‘a slap in the face’ to he and especially the Duchess of Sussex who would have had the honour of bearing the 35kg wheel.

Palace sources quote Kate as saying, ‘Wills’ll take Harry down, no probs. Can’t see it going the distance, to be honest. Harry ain’t exactly Conor McGregor now, is he?’ In response, the Sussex camp have revealed that Harry has been in training for several weeks and considers himself to be in peak form. ‘Bring it on!’ Meghan reportedly said. ‘This time it’s personal.’

It is understood that the contest is to be fought under MMA rules and although no venue has been agreed, the Royal Albert Hall is being considered, as is Wembley Stadium.

Prince Charles when asked for a comment, said, ‘It is all very disappointing. Why can’t they sit down and discuss their problems in a civilised manner, perhaps over a cup of tea and some Duchy Organic Stem Ginger biscuits, available from Waitrose?’


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Downing Street “baffled” by Eurovision loss even after they sent aircraft carrier to sea

UNDERMINING BREXIT : It is now clear to all patriots that the EU will stop at nothing to prevent Brexit being the success it self-evidently is. This is in spite of the tireless efforts of the German automotive sector, the French cheese sector and the Italian prosecco industry to ensure Brexit succeeds.

The latest pathetic attempt to undermine the project of Great British renewal came last night during the Eurovision song contest. It seems even in this star studded song contest Brussels is trying to do us down.

“We should remind Eurovision that it needs us more than we need it,” one avid UK fan posted on social media. All the social media. “Without our entry each year the competition would have virtually no interest to anyone. We should leave Eurovision immediately.”

And while patriotic citizens are rightfully enraged over the zero points our fully sovereign, free trading, global powerhouse received, reports suggest there is just a general sense of bafflement within 10 Downing Street.

“That’s nothing unusual,” a 10 Downing Street source tells LCD Views. “There’s always something baffling the occupants. Mostly it’s the wallpaper. Sometimes it’s the pandemic. Today it’s Eurovision. Mr Johnson himself did everything he could to ensure British success.”

The everything appears to have been sending a Royal Navy aircraft carrier to sea to intimidate the EU.

“We’re going to have to start divebombing French fishermen before next year’s competition. Let Brussels see us roar! Assuming the Americans continue to loan us the planes.”

Without the borrowed planes the giant ship is just an admiral’s yacht.

“Maybe that’s the way to win next year? A bit of Gilbert and Sullivan reworked? We are the very model of a fully sovereign, free trading nation, I’ve information vegetable, animal and mineral, I know the Kings of England and quote the fights historical…”

That might do it! Reading the lyrics Gilbert and Sullivan is now clear that is our contemporary time period. Let’s have Boris Johnson dress up as a 19th century admiral and sing at next year’s contest. Then he could truthfully say he did do all he could to ensure the UK’s success, for once.

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Decade long study finds karma is taking its sweet fucking time

TICK TOCK : The Institute for Wellbeing During Times of Madness has concluded today that they need a snappier name. Happily they’ve also revealed the results of a study into karma.

“Karma, as it is understood in Western popular culture, is really slow,” lead researcher Professor Aargh told LCD Views. “In fact there seems to be an inverse relationship operating. The better a person you are, as defined by your concerns for other people and especially people you don’t personally know, the faster karma serves up. The worse an individual under the same criteria, the slower karma approaches.”

The study will not come as a huge shock to anyone living in Brexitannia, given the epic scale of shithousery that has been sprayed over the country for many years now with few of the antagonists suffering any negative fallout.

“I would not get too dispirited,” Professor Aargh advises. “The story of David Cameron tells you that karma will eventually arrive. We suspect the sloth like nature of retribution is because bad actors need to fall out with one another in order to call it down. Good people could achieve the same end but they appear more interested in purity contests, and so don’t organise as a collective until the situation is epically grave.”

The Professor further advises patience with a note of sobriety.

“If a political party refuses to remove bad actors from its ranks than the voters have to do it for them. If the voters refuse to do it then karma is actually visiting them daily in small ways that mount up eventually into an avalanche. Priti Patel is a prime example. GE after GE she is returned to escalate her terrible work when it’s as clear as the nose everyone has cut off their face that she should have been removed from political life long ago.”

The Institute is next going to focus on Rupert Murdoch specifically.

“Look at him, he’s now older than time and rules any country he’s allowed to publish his mind bending hate rags in like the Emperor in Star Wars. This shows an interesting feedback loop. If the people allow a poisoner to daily visit their well then the people will be poisoned. The poisoner thus appears protected. This likely means that whilst everyone wants karma to be their friend, karma is in actuality a bitch.”

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I still sew his name into all his clothes, says Boris Johnson’s mum

ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT: Touching news about our much-revered Crime Minister, Little Boris Johnson, emerged this week. His mum let it slip on social media that she still sews a name tape into all his clothing.

The network, MaterFamiliaris, has been described as a NetMummies for posh people. Mrs Johnson joined to fill in the empty hours while Stanley was away flouting travel restrictions or boffing his latest blonde filly.

Other famous people’s mothers are on MaterFamiliaris too. For example, Michael Gove’s mum admits to doing all Michael’s laundry, because his wife is ‘too posh to wash’.

MaterFamiliaris is full of the usual mundane threads. Typical topics of conversation include,’My son was expelled from Eton, how do I cope with the shame?’, ‘The price of pheasant in Harrod’s’, and ‘The best way to hire and fire Nanny’. Hidden among these everyday concerns was the gem ‘My son keeps rejecting me, but I found a solution’.

In this thread Mrs Johnson describes how her son frequently sends back items of clothing. “I have always sewn a name tape into Alexander’s clothing, he’s a right scamp! He is always losing things. I have lost count of the number of pairs of underpants he gets through!”

But, this humorous comment aside, there was a complaint. “He hates it when I use his proper name,” Mrs Johnson writes. “I know most people know him as Boris, but to me he will always be Alexander. So all his name tapes read ‘Alexander B. De P. Johnson’. Often he sends clothes with this name tag back, though funnily enough not the underpants. But I have found a solution!”

At this point the thread ended for several hours, the social media equivalent of a dramatic pause. Finally, she resumed. “And here it is. The latest batch of labels reads ‘Prime Minister’. Not a single garment has returned!”

And it helps to remind Mr Johnson of what he is supposed to be doing all day.