Category: Pseudo Science

TAKE ONE PILL AND CALL ME IN THE MORNING IF YOU’RE STILL ALIVE : The UK has been an international outlier in the Covid-19 crisis, mostly because we’re determinedly exceptional.

“It’s a real opportunity,” a Downing Street source tells LCD Views, “mostly to show the Continentals how to handle a public health crisis like a PR exercise, with scant regard to the impact on the lives of the peasants.”

Just like Brexit then?

“Exactly. It’s why Classic Dom attends SAGE. If you let actual public health experts decide ‘the science’ the Prime Minister is guided by you stand at risk of emerging from the pandemic and still having a social care crisis. If that happens old Bojo will have to come up with a policy. That’s like socialism. Makes you feel a bit sick at the thought. Labour comes up with policies, we come up with stories. It’s why we keep winning. It’s how we’ll win Covid-19. The brave sacrifice of the mighty Britons faced with an emergency none could ever have foreseen. But we rose to the challenge and defeated the virus! Churchill spent a lot of time in a bunker in the Blitz. Boris is spending time in the Chequers cellar. It’s exactly the same.”

But what about people who think actual epidemiologists, virologists and others who specialise in pandemics should decide what we do? You know, instead of the guy found in contempt of parliament?

“Where’s the opportunity in that? We’d end up just following the WHO advice like some subject nation straining under the yoke of trans-national organisational tyranny to regain our sovereignty. We didn’t get blue passports back just to throw it all away keeping NHS staff alive with actual PPE.”

So it’s Dom’s way or the WHO’s way?

“Exactly. Like an intravenous injection of bleach right into the trachea. The guy who headed up the Brexit lobby group found to have broken electoral law will Get Covid-19 Dom! If you’re lucky some of you will live to enjoy the completely unbiased and heroic biopic!”

Disinfectant Donald, the very stable genius, has been defended by Boris Johnson. Like us, he was only following the science.

The man with the bigly brain and the highly convincing fake tan has suggested inoculations with a cleaning fluid that “kills all known viruses dead”. His other suggestions include exposing yourself, internally, to lethal doses of ultraviolet radiation. What could possibly go wrong?

Prime Minister (in name only) Boris Johnson, still self-isolating to avoid any contact with reality, has backed his bombastic buddy from the comfort of his luxury fridge.

“Boris is in good spirits,” disclosed a Downing Street ‘source’. “Distilled spirits, mostly, with a shot of peroxide to maintain the blond barnet. He has been in close consultation with his soul brother across the pond, and has taken his wise deductions to heart.”

The ‘source’ was quick to point out that Boris Johnson wasn’t well enough to do any work, even if he was up to phoning Donald Trump.

“Boris claims it is like talking to a small child,” the ‘source’ went on. “He should know what that’s like, having fathered a few. However, he is in a weakened and vulnerable state, by which we mean the press is finally starting to turn on him. So he has returned to decorating his empty wine boxes with his poster paints, and has passed on Mr Trump’s scientific results.”

This sage advice has been presented to the SAGE committee. Chief medical advisor “Classic” Dom Cummings is trying to inject some Vim into proceedings, if Michael Gove hasn’t managed to snort it all yet.

“There’s always a lot of Vim at these meetings,” said the ‘source’. “Well, some kind of white powder anyway. I hear that they are freebasing Cillit Bang, sniffing Mr Sheen, and coming down with a few rocks of crack co-codamol.”

Following the science, or chasing the dragon? Somebody’s cleaning up, that’s for certain.

Ramping it up: not content with believing six impossible things before breakfast, the bar has been raised. The new target is 100,000.

Example fibs are rumoured to include ‘We are working day and night’, ‘PPE is on the way’, and “The NHS is safe in our hands’.

This is a big ask for a government which, to date, has been committed to testing just one fib at a time. Unfortunately for them, Keir Starmer, the Sunday Times, and even Piers Fucking Morgan are now refusing to swallow their bullshit. The capacity is there but the will is yet to follow. So the fibs are being ramped up.

It’s all about getting ahead of the curve and flattening it. Facts that have latterly been buried under one pathetic lie are now poking their heads above the parapet, like spring daffodils emerging from beneath a thin layer of manure. Dominic Raab, the least convincing Boris Johnson impersonator since Boris Johnson, is starting to struggle with his grasp on unreality.

This isn’t doubling down. Or even squaring or cubing down. This one’s going exponential, like a virus allowed to spread unchecked through a vulnerable population.

So expect a flood of fibs, a torrent of tosh, a cloudburst of codswallop. Expect more bollocks than the waste disposal unit in a castration station.

Ministers have been very careful not to promise 100,000 new fibs, because even if they strain every sinew they possess, and several they don’t, it’s a target more likely to be honoured in the breach than in the observance. Even the fertile, febrile imagination of “Classic” Dom Cummings would have difficulty creating the necessary untruths in the timescale required. Instead they are trumpeting that they now have the capacity for 100,000 fibs.

It’s all in the syntax. Finally, a tax this government doesn’t want to cut.

Suck it up! The new care worker badges are to be produced by offshore brexity British power vacuum manufacturer Dyson.

“This is a huge development,” announced Bad Health Secretary Matt Hancock. “This futile empty gesture will cost a lot of money and be almost completely ineffective. But it gives the impression that we care, and that’s what is really at stake here.”

We wondered if funding care workers directly might be a better solution.

“Of course it would be much more efficient to increase their pay and provide PPE, but don’t forget that these people are low paid, and therefore unskilled and of little worth,” Hancock scolded. “A pay rise is tantamount to socialism by the back door, and that cannot be allowed to happen.”

Why ask Dyson to make them, asked one reporter before their microphone was cynically turned off.

“Dyson makes things,” observed Hancock sagely. “He’s the only person on our approved list of donors and cronies who actually makes things. It was a no-brainer!”

There was delight among the hard pressed, vulnerable care worker community, as you can imagine.

“This is the best news I’ve had in ages!” said Hattie Tinfoil, in between persistent coughs. “I heard that these magic badges also protect against 5G, you know, 5G beams the virus straight into your bloodstream, it’s Chinese innit, I won’t eat chow mein any more, let me tell you now!”

Hattie wrapped a towel round her head and pulled on a pair of mittens. “Best I can do, innit,” she said. “Can’t wait for the badge, it wards off infections, viruses and evil spirits, can’t effing wait!”

What is the best medical advice?

“If you must have human contact, especially with the vulnerable, use fresh PPE for every interaction,” said Doctor Parris Eatermoll. “And don’t listen to the official government medical advisors. They are all struck off for fraud and incompetence, but still use the title ‘Doctor’. Like those retired army twonks who insist you still call them Colonel, 40 years after they hung up their uniform.”

What will the badges say? It’s a closely guarded secret, but rumour suggests that the inscription will read ‘Unclean’.

Come and have a go if you think you’re infectious enough! Fighting talk from the current stand-in tin-pot puppet poster boy of the sociopathic super-wealthy global cabal.

The gloves are off. Regardless of whatever advice so-called “experts” may give. This is a British leader, fighting a foreign menace in a typically British manner.

“Violence is the only language these foreign viruses understand,” said Raab, forehead glinting with beads of sweat, diagnostic throbbing vein pulsing rapidly. “If that virus comes anywhere near me, I’m going to punch it in the nose, as soon as I find out where it is!”

This is really ramping up the response. Punching the virus is a step up from rhetoric but no action.

“We will fight this, erm, invasion we must now call it, with British Pluck and Blitz Spirit!” he declared. “We are on our own against the world, and we will win on our own, just like we did in World War 2!”

But this battle isn’t like The War, it’s against coronavirus.

“Coronavirus? Isn’t that in Turkey?” he asked, the vein throbbing ever more prominently. “We don’t want Turkey coming over here, with their delights and their baths and their Christmas dinners and their flying carpets. This is why we left the EU and this is why we are still doing it whatever, so there!”

Constantinople? Is that what you mean? Istanbul, it’s called now. Istanbul.

“It’s not bull!” he sulked. “Millions of Turks are poised to come over here, right now, with their curly slippers and their superior knowledge of geography.”

Raab gathered himself, with some effort, and struck a pose which he imagined was authoritative and statesmanlike.

“We will fight this threat on the beaches!” he announced. “In every town and city! Just as soon as we know what beaches are, but our best people are looking into it right now!”

Never was so little done by so few to help so many.

“I hadn’t fully appreciated the scale of the pandemic, or indeed the meaning of the word,” Raab concluded. “But don’t worry, I’m going to make sure the virus takes it on the chin!”

After all, it’s just a temporary health flow problem.

The devil finds work for idle hands to do. Fairly maligned beer discounter Tim Martin is at a loose end, since his cheap and cheerless pub chain has been forced to close. As a high profile Brexit supporting businessman, he is the obvious person to develop a coronavirus vaccine.

Within seconds of the announcement being made, social media platforms went into meltdown like a small girl being told to eat her vegetables. Prominent immunologists, virologists and other ologists complained that their expertise and R&D work had been passed over in favour of a publican who resembles the Cowardly Lion after a heavy night in ‘Spoons.

In the interests of balanced reporting, a group of former Wetherspoons drinkers have gathered outside the now closed drinking den, in solidarity with Martin. Red-faced, coughing unstoppably and short of breath, their taste for industrial alcohol, weapons grade tobacco and messages on beer mats makes them even more toxic than the virus. The police have created a two metre exclusion zone around them for the safety of anyone whose necessary journey takes them past the old gin palace.

Insiders reveal that the formula for the vaccine is being extracted from the residue found in his rarely cleaned pub carpets. Old, dirty and downtrodden, Wetherspoons drinkers are to be found throughout the UK.

But where there’s muck, there’s a brass neck. Tarting up rubbish and selling it to a gullible population is the modus operandi of Brexit and its promoters. Ego trumps expertise, and Trump’s ego trumps everything else. Expect the POTUS to be hailing ‘Spoons’ Floor Standard as a miracle cure any day now.

Martin is also selling his pro-herd immunity beer mats as a coronavirus souvenir.

Recovering Wetherspoons drinkers are rumoured to be selling their redundant hazmat suits for ten toilet rolls and half a dozen eggs.

And reassuringly, Martin has made a short video in which he consoles the workers he callously fired after the shutdown. “Alcohol is the answer,” he burbles, knocking back a glass of the finest French cognac. “F*@# knows what the question was. Bottoms up!”

GET READY TO STIFFEN YOURS : The behaviourism scientists and eugenicists filtering the medical specialists’ advice to the UK PM have offered reassurances as to how we’re getting it just right with Coronavirus, while all the silly foreigners are falling apart.

“Foreign chaps lack an upper lip capable of stiffening,” Mad Boffin Batshit told LCD Views’ pandemic correspondent, in an interview that was somewhat reserved and panic free.

“Clearly they are biologically capable of stiffening their lip, well, most of them. Some have had the ability bred right out of their race of course. But many still could, thanks to having British ancestors in their recent family tree,” Mad Boffin Batshit went on, “but psychologically they are inferior to British chaps. They lack the basic mental fortitude to look mass death in the face, shrug and show suitable reserve.”

But while it’s clear why the UK government is taking an increasingly diverse line on the viral threat to our European counterparts, Mad Boffin Batshit knows who will come out of all this looking the best.

“Look, we can’t very well thumb our nose at all that EU stuff and then go and copy their reaction to Covid-19. It will weaken our hand in the Brexit negotiations,” Mad Boffin Batshit explained, “when the foreign boys look at how we purposely arranged to cull our own herd of its weak, they’ll know the UK is completely full of stiffs.”

To help people understand why the British approach is best the government will shortly be launching a public information campaign.

“It will be just like the ‘Get Ready’ ones last year,” Mad Boffin Batshit advised, “except this time it will have the lyrics of ‘Ring a ring a rosie’ on them, just in case anyone’s forgot.”

W ANCHOR FIRST CLASS : The people may have had quite enough of experts in the fields of trade, economics, aviation, manufacturing, the pharmaceutical industry, what makes a passport, the labour market, electoral crime, foreign interference, civil society, what is true and what is false, basically all the way through, but not it seems when the boffins are talking about the happy expectations of a long and vigorous existence.

And news today that self pleasure, the five knuckle shuffle, beating the bishop, going blind with pleasure and throttling the trouser snake boosts the immune system has the United Kingdom’s most powerful politicians beaming with the happy expectation of living to a right old age. Regardless of their plans for the NHS.

And it’s not just figures in the cabinet that are celebrating. Nigel Farage is expected to take to the air on his live hate show on LBC and make the understandable claim that he’s going to live longer than Moses.

“It’s really good news,” LCD Views health matters correspondent comments, “with the Coronavirus pandemic, the looming shortage of citrus thanks to looming no deal Brexit, the endless grey and rain, what Britons need now is a way to strengthen their immune defence in a cost effective way. And nothing is more cost effective than time spent alone really looking after yourself. I mean really looking after yourself. If you know what I mean.”

We know what you mean. Don’t bang on about it. At least we have an inkling now as to why there’s a looming toilet paper shortage. But the last word goes to our source at Downing Street.

“We’re all really chuffed,” the source told LCD Views, “because we’re all, everyone of us, massive wankers.”

Amen to that.

Scientists have isolated a new and particularly virulent strain of coronavirus. It is so deadly that it has already been dubbed “man-covid-19”.

This form of the notorious virus seems to affect men more than women. Panic buying has set in, and many supermarkets have already sold out of video games, snacks, and beer.

“It’s truly remarkable,” remarked strong manly boffin Professor Dulles Dishwater. “It is exactly the same phenomenon that exists with common influenza. It is far deadlier to the male of the species.”

Obviously people want to know what the symptoms of man-covid-19 are.

“For a woman,” began Prof Dishwater, “it manifests as little more than a slight snuffle that goes away after a few days. For a man, however -” and now his tone grew deep and grave – “then there is unceasing catarrh, severe pains in the joints, headache, nausea, and fatigue.”

Not dissimilar to a hangover, in fact.

“And the only advice I can give to stricken men is to keep warm, don’t go to work under any circumstances, and drink plenty of fluids. Preferably alcoholic ones,” he concluded.

Official advice from the government’s officious advisor follows the same template. Prize Ass Minister Boris Johnson has already taken a lead on the matter. He is setting a good example to the country by disappearing from public view.

“This is purely precautionary,” explained Downing Street spokesweeble Devlin de Detail. “While he is indisposed, Dominic Cummings will act as his regent.”

Cummings is popularly supposed to be immune to man-covid-19 on account of his reptilian blood.

The remainder of parliament is expected to follow suit, except, naturally, for the women. Presumably this means far more governmental business will get done in the next two weeks.

The NHS is creaking under the strain. Fortunately, many public houses are helping out by offering a 14 day lock-in to any unfortunate sufferers in the locality.

Now pass me a toilet roll and a case of beer. Self-isolation begins at home.

Pandemic panic is a good thing, claims Health Sell-off Secretary Matt Hancock. It puts the British into fight or flight mode, which will come in handy come next year, when communities will tear themselves apart scrapping over the last tin of baked beans in Lidl.

The government’s official advice has been upgraded from “Yeah, whatever” to “F*ck me, a deadly virus! Run away! Run away!”

Hancock has his finger on the pulse, his snout the trough, and his hand on his cock. His infectious toxicity is spreading rapidly as he tries to spin disaster as a good thing.

“It’s good to tighten our belts and toughen ourselves up,” admitted Hancock to LCD Views’ Don’t Touch Me, I’m Still Infectious correspondent, who refused to shake Hancock’s unoccupied hand. “Our predictions predict a riot, predictably. This disease thing will root out the weak, and leave the country fitter and leaner. Who needs three good meals a day, anyway?”

Admirable sentiments, but what does this have to do with Brexit? Sorry, Br#x@t.

“No deal, err, B-word, means our slavish dependence on the EU will be gone forever,” he explained. “We will have our freedom, country and full sovereignty back. If we have to do without European bread, cheese, milk, meat, vegetables, fruit, wine and fish – yes, fish – it will be worth it in the long run. I say, are you feeling a little peckish?”

Yeah, we are all looking forward to that nice yummy sovereignty. In the meantime, what will there be to eat?

“There may be short term shortages,” Hancock scolded. “It will be like when you have a virus and can’t eat.”

So we will definitely be the sick man of Europe again?

“Let me just say that we will make an outstanding success of no deal, err, thingy,” replied Hancock.

No answer, no deal, no idea. Still, a cock in the hand is worth two in the bush.