Mopping Up the Cockroaches

Mere years after the wog-bombing of Libya, a Royal Navy ship has condescended to participate in the rescue of refugees in the Mediterranean. Thanks to British values and the common decency of our Head Boy and his chums, all it took was a few hundred drownings and, no doubt, a bit of reassurance from the Euro-wogs that the EU wouldn't pay us to take any survivors. Appropriately enough, it was the Minister for Wog-Bombing who was extruded to proclaim the Government's pride and joy in its humanitarian efforts. He was careful to emphasise that aid was being offered only to "those in need", although it is unclear whether the Navy's personnel are as efficient as the Home Office or the DWP in distinguishing the deserving from the undeserving. He was equally careful to refer to the refugee crisis as a "migrant crisis", thereby emphasising once more that the major threat is not to a few soggy Africans, but to the very existence of Britain's white working classes.

Off Message

Elements of the British Broadcasting Blob have criticised the mad old cat lady in the Home Office for her plans to censor television programmes. While the scumbag press needs no regulator to speak of, the broadcasting media are quite another matter, particularly since the then Minister for Media, Cultchah and NewsCorp, Jeremy C Hunt, bungled Murdoch's attempted take-over of the few remaining independent airwaves. The last time the Conservatives tried to pre-censor broadcasters was during the 1980s, when the sainted Thatcher banned the transmission of the voices of IRA sympathisers; the Bolshevik liberal media got around that one by dubbing the evil ones' words with other people's voices. It is as yet unclear what the mad old cat lady in the Home Office actually wants to ban, although the victims are not expected to include such noted extremists as Lord Lawson, the Caudillo of the Farage Falange, Iain Duncan Smith or Theresa May.

Buttressing the Race through Inquisitorial Testing

Among the many ways in which the Conservatives have not sought to break with the previous Labour administration is, of course, government snoopery; and a Labour borough council has zealously continued that proud bipartisan tradition. Survivors of the Blair régime will recall his reverence's decree that extremists must be detected in the womb; Waltham Forest council has done its bit for total policing by testing nine-year-old schoolchildren for suspected flaws in their Britishness. The survey was meant to be anonymous, but those with nothing to hide have nothing to fear, so pupils were asked to identify themselves; and nearly a quarter of the borough's population is Muslim, so parents were not consulted in case tribal patriarchs terrified all the offspring in their compounds into non-compliance or, worse yet, fifth-column fakery. Since it appears to be concerned mainly with hunting down divergence and fomenting paranoia, the surveillance programme goes under the acronym BRIT - Building Resilience through Integration and Trust - which must be the most charming use of Newspeak since the brilliant Iain Duncan Smith decided to call his own pet thick-tank the Centre for Social Justice.

As Safe as Market Forces Permit

Despite being ever alert to opportunities for a fund-raising panic about lurking terrorists, the Heathen Chinee or the festering Argie threat, the Ministry for Wog-Bombing remains intensely relaxed about the American weapons of mass destruction which it retains at Faslane, a convenient distance from Westminster. A Royal Navy whistle-blower who raised concerns about the shortage of qualified personnel has been "confined to a specified location" and is "being afforded the duty of care", which an uncharitable translator might be tempted to render into Standard English as thrown in the clink and being dismissed as a loony. Meanwhile, the Ministry has investigated itself with all necessary promptitde and rigour; and it appears that, contrary to the whistle-blower's assertions, everything is all right and everyone can go back to sleep - even the Minister for Wog-Bombing himself, who only a few weeks ago was frothing with panic lest a Jewish Socialist conspiracy should sell Britain out to Putin's evil empire.

Not Just Compassion, But Aspiration Too

Prospects for peace in the Middle East received a brief and temporary boost today as the Ascended Incarnation of the Reverend Blair resigned his post as special envoy for the financial interests of Tony Blair. It is as yet unclear what new role his reverence will take on, or whether his erstwhile employers will be able to replace so dynamic a preserver of the status quo and so dedicated a consigner of Arabs to the peace they rest in. Few would deny that his reverence's ministry to the Levantines has been controversial, although one understandably anonymous disciple said that much had been achieved with regard to the free movement of natives between bantustans. More recently, the healing hand of his reverence has been felt in opening the Allenby border crossing, named for another conquering hero in a war nearly as glamorous and ethically uplifting as the famous Iraq crusade. Whatever the next stage in the journey, his reverence surely cannot fail to take pride in his most obtrusive Middle Eastern legacy: the rise of Islamic State, which shares both his respect for human life and his intensely relaxed attitude to history.

The Ethical Dimension Rears Its Ugly Head

Having abandoned Kirkcaldy and Cowdenbeath to the ravages of Scottish nationalism, the former Glorious Successor to the Reverend Blair has done what any British worker would do and toddled into a British job at the United Nations. As the special envoy for global education, Gordon Brown has delivered himself of an officially impassioned call for everyone to think of the children. Brown, who was the son of a preacher-man and can boast of at least as many dead children as Britain's present Head Boy, is these days much exercised about schools being attacked (evidently someone else was chancellor when Britain condoned Israel's 2006 rampage in Lebanon) and about the general instability of the Middle East (clearly someone else was paymaster to the Reverend Blair's crusade in Iraq). Doubtless Brown's moral eructations will provoke much interest and debate among TB-GB-watchers as to how far his avarice-sanctimony balance is the inverse or converse of the Reverend's.

Preserving Our Democracy

Those Britons who have lived abroad for fifteen years or more, thereby missing almost the entire earthly ministry of the Reverend Blair as well as the miracle of Osbornomics, will be deprived of the right to vote in the forthcoming EU referendum. A pledge was made that such people would be graciously permitted to exert their democratic influence, despite the obvious risk of their having gone native; but it is most unlikely that the pledge was taken seriously even by expats who habitually go out without their pith helmets, since it was made by the former chair Michael Green. The Government will also be excluding sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds from the vote on the grounds that the franchise, unlike the NHS, the schools and the justice system, is much too important to be tinkered with.

Alas, They Are Not Worthy

Allies of the brilliant Iain Duncan Smith are briefing against his Cabinet colleagues and proclaiming him the Good Cop among the poor-bashers. Apparently the Conservatives, in an unprecedented move, made some pledges during the election that they didn't intend to keep; and now, in another unprecedented move, the Cabinet is trying to keep them, thereby placing a severe strain upon the intellectual capacities of the brilliant Duncan Smith and his almost equally brilliant allies, whose professional advice and expertise Lynton Crosby and the Bullingdons seem somehow to have managed without. The brilliant Duncan Smith, whose pet Universal Credit project is doubtless as much on schedule as it ever has been during the few geological eras since its inception, is worried that cutting the welfare bill by the promised twelve billion will undermine his grand schemes for the moral redemption of proledom. The solution, as always, is "behavioural change" among his inferiors, and "structural reform" of the Department for Workfare and Privation, which has so consistently failed to live up to the brilliant Duncan Smith's compassionate vision.

Trimming Away the Flab

Britain's lissom, slender Head Boy has ordered his prefects to squash a junior tick who proposed a tax on sugary foods. The minister for life sciences had implied that child obesity might possibly be lessened by reducing the profits of companies whose products make children obese. As might be expected, Britain's Head Boy and his chums regard any tax on corporate profiteers as a tax on hard-working families; they did initiate a voluntary "responsibility deal" whereby companies agreed to make their products healthier and were subject to no sanctions at all if they failed to do so, but somehow or other this has failed to have much of an effect. As playground bullies of long standing, the Bullingdons' own preferred solution is a war on fat people, and the Minister for NewsCorp and Profitable Healthcare, Jeremy C Hunt, is already planning the next phase of the campaign. Given Hunt's background as a Murdoch drone, doubtless ritual humiliation will have a role to play alongside the taxpayer-funded forcible surgery.

Never in Albion

The perfidious French have passed a perfidious law which imposes bureaucratic regulation upon the rights of wealth creators. The national assembly voted unanimously in favour of forcing supermakets to give away unsold food, which could mean that poor people will be eating almost as well as hard-working families. Supermarkets are also banned from deliberately making unsold food inedible as a scrounger deterrent, and a fiendish, socialistic re-education programme is to be implemented in schools in order to breed an entire generation of supermarket-victimisers. It is all very perfidious indeed.

Cockroach Trading

Australia, which for economic vulnerability to the migrant hordes is second only to the United Kingdom, has managed to offload four refugees onto the more wealthy and carefree nation of Cambodia, at a cost of only ten million dollars per cockroach. The poverty-stricken island nation notoriously suffers from its native wog population, whose drinking habits have been dragging the country down ever since the rightful owners arrived over two hundred years ago. Cambodia has said that it will accept only genuine refugees, but the definition of a genuine refugee varies between cultures and it is thought that the Cambodian definition, unlike the more advanced British and Australian, does not exclude people who are still alive. All transfers will have to be made on a "strictly voluntary" basis, so Australia has opened a concentration camp in the South Pacific where asylum seekers are given aggressive incentivisation against following the European explorers' glorious example. It is to be hoped that the lucky winners, a Rohingya and three Iranians, will take the trouble to learn Khmer before attempting to take over their new homeland's public services.

Barking Down the Law

The mad old cat lady at the Home Office has been lecturing the Police Federation about how it had better co-operate in the coming apocalypse, because resistance will only hurt more. In a brief lapse into Good Cop mode, the mad old cat lady announced the conversion of police cars into mobile stations, perhaps so that traditional, stationary stations can be converted into affordable housing for all those hard-working families who are struggling to get by on £100,000 a year. The mad old cat lady also wants to reduce the use of police cells to detain the mentally ill, though it is as yet unclear whether the erstwhile detainees will be remanded to the custody of their benefits-slashed, bedroom-taxed relatives (family values) or simply abandoned onto the streets and told to get a job (care in the community).

As to the police themselves, the mad old cat lady does not believe that further cuts cannot be made, which of course quite settles the matter; and she ordered the Police Federation to stop scaremongering and crying wolf. Apparently the Police Federation is full of the kind of irresponsible hysterics who believe that illegal immigrants cannot be deported because of their pets, or who think that accepting 2,309 refugees as part of a European programme would mean the end of the United Kingdom's glorious thousand-year history, or who imagine that terrorism can best be fought by attempting to spy on everyone all of the time.

Spaghetti-Slurping Surrender Monkeys

Italian coastguard commanders have added another inglorious episode to their country's lamentable military history by betraying Fortress Europe to the migrant hordes. Three senior officers in charge of the campaign to clean up the Mediterranean have proclaimed, against all theological reason, that non-NATO countries have territorial waters where military actions may not be carried out; and they have reiterated the claims of Libyan entrepreneurs in the human resource transfer market, to the effect that the most effective course of action would be to destroy abandoned smuggling ships rather than stamp on the cockroaches. Arguably, they have even gone so far as to imply that there are situations involving poor brown people which cannot be solved by a bit of wog-bombing. It is Europe's good fortune that neither the mad old cat lady at the Home Office, nor the empty suit at the Ministry for Wogs, Frogs and Huns, nor the Westminster faith-based community as a whole, has ever had much time for the opinions of people who merely get things done.

Junior Executives Wanted

Some pious chums of Britain's Head Boy are advertising for religious functionaries to dispense divine mercy in a newly expanding economic area where the cuts just keep getting better. No special qualifications are required, beyond a Duncan Smith level of compassion for transgressors and a willingness to work with someone else at the sharp end. Applicants will be expected to work with hands as well as heads, although the presence of hearts and minds may prove disadvantageous, particularly if either should happen to exceed the normal dimensions for faith-based communities such as Westminster and the scumbag press.

Pretty Please, School Bully, Hit Them And Not Us

With the economy back on track and everything going swimmingly, the Chancellor has announced an "emergency budget" for July in which he will commend to a rejoicing House of Claimants his plans for the next round of poor-bashing, cripple-kicking and child-robbing. Accordingly, Conservative local authorities have joined forces with those run by the other one-and-a-bit branches of the British Neoliberal Party, and have written a letter to the Observer, which is obviously just the sort of action to make the Bullingdon Club think again. Better yet, the concerns raised include such matters as "vital services, such as collecting bins, filling potholes, maintaining our parks and green spaces, caring for the elderly", as well as knock-on effects in the hated public sector, such as the NHS. The extent of concern for these fripperies at Westminster generally, and the Bullingdon Club in particular, is clearly more apparent to the honourable councillors than it has been to the reality-based community.

Patriot Missile

As the Labour circle loses one of its most Blairite jerks, in the salesbot form of the Heseltine-wannabe Chuka Umunna, it seems only fair to recall the Reverend Tony's most significant and influential legacy to the world. The peace, freedom and democracy which have been breaking out in Iraq for the past dozen years continued yesterday with a suicide attack by Tony's stepchildren, the god-bothering shock-and-awe specialists Islamic State. This attack was a bit more important than the usual routine of merely Iraqi property vandalism and collateral damage, in that one of the perpetrators is reported to have been a British national. The name which the foreign fighter was using included the suffix al-Britani; which indicates that, as one would expect, the sons of Tony recognise and revere the Union.

Conchies

They did not join to fight the Hun,
Nor shared our glory when we won.

We cannot, in good conscience, sell
The martyrdoms of those who fell.

They got their dues; the least of which
Is not to share our poppy-kitsch.

Tommy Rotter

Assertive Democratisation Solutions

The Metropolitan Firearms and Headbangers' Club's chap in charge of "specialist crime and operations" has called for mandatory indoctrination programmes to prevent potential terrorist suspects becoming terrorist suspects. It seems that civilisation has not sufficiently penetrated the hearts and minds of people who haven't done anything illegal, so they need to be force-fed British values in order to prevent their turning into people who still haven't done anything illegal. The Metropolitan Firearms and Headbangers' Club is rather exercised about the issue at the moment because people are travelling to war-torn countries, and some of them are believed to be coming back.

Hissy-Fitting For Britain

Uppity Euro-wogs have rebuked the mad old cat lady at the Home Office; who is of course universally known as such because she almost never makes things up provided the scumbag press can do it for her. The Euro-wogs have been indiscreet enough to formulate the beginnings of a European policy for coping with the humanitarian crisis unleased by the wog-bombing of Libya, in which the government of Britain's Head Boy was naturally an enthusiastic participant. Under the proposed rules, should we decide to accept them, the UK would be allocated the values-bending total of 2,309 asylum seekers for whom Brussels would pay. Accordingly, as soon as the proposals were announced the mad old cat lady at the Home Office began foaming that their implementation would mean the end of the world; that starving refugees ("economic migrants" in Newspeak) should be inserted in sterilised cannons and shot back where they came from; and that Britain, despite the endless special exemptions which it has endlessly whined for and won, would have nothing to do with anything except possibly a bit more wog-bombing. The vice-president of the European commission and the EU's representative for foreign policy and security have both reacted with bemusement. The trouble seems to be that, whereas the Government is in fact posturing for the only audience it really cares about, namely the UKIP faction on its own backbenches, the Euro-wogs in their naïve egocentricity persist in believing that Britain's Head Boy and his henchbeings have some sort of interest in what's happening on the Continent.

Why We Need Those Submarines

Rebellious Scots look set to join a monolithic and ruthless Celtic conspiracy to undermine British values by opposing the Conservatives' perfectly sane and compassionate scheme to replace the Human Rights Act with a rah-rah new Bill of Duties for the British Subject. Concerns have already been raised in Northern Ireland that such a move could breach the Good Friday agreement, despite the famous British victory over the forces of republican nationalism. In Scotland, minions of the fiend Sturgeon have threatened to exclude themselves from the responsibilities of Britishness on the paltry grounds that devolution permits their doing so. The Scottish secretary, who is doubtless the brightest and best that was willing to fag for Britain's Head Boy north of the border, dismissed such technicalities with a wave of his hand while informing the Scotch people of their share in the Bullingdon Club's concerns that "we have got the balance wrong between rights and responsibilities." It is as yet unclear whether this means there are plans to balance corporate rights of exploitation and profit in the UK with corresponding responsibilities to pay their tax; or whether it merely means that the right to free speech will be balanced by an obligation to blame wogs and scroungers rather than the Government when things go wrong.

Return of the Native

Farage Falange Führer in reverse resignation romp

Cadres of the Farage Falange erupted in spontaneous joy all over the United Kingdom today as it emerged that their beloved Caudillo had been forced to resign from having resigned.

The Caudillo was one of several dozen political leaders to hand in their resignations after Thursday's election victory for the moderate political wing of the City of London. He has now decided to break the mould of British politics once more by not keeping his word.

The Caudillo had argued that it was not credible to lead the movement without claiming expenses at Westminster. However, he has now decided that as long as the Kingdom stands in peril he cannot in conscience permit himself the longed-for luxury of political oblivion.

The party's announcement that the Caudillo's resignation had been officially spurned was greeted with tears of ecstasy across the whole country, except for Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland and the homosexual parts of London.

Delighted citizens celebrated with acts of spontaneous urination over Polski Skleps and Roman roads, while others toasted the Caudillo's health from Labour-surplus migrant control mugs.

Tried and Tested

Britain and its allies are making ready to show Jerry a thing or two with a new, long-term economic plan for dealing with the migrant hordes. It will be remembered that Germany and Sweden between them are taking almost half the refugees created by the successful wog-bombing of Libya some time ago, and the beastly Huns have drawn up a fiendish plot to foist some of these cockroaches on better countries than their own. Naturally, Britain and its allies are not going to stand for that, and will shortly proclaim that the answer is, as always, a bit more wog-bombing. The strong, free and democratic government which Britain and its allies installed in Libya after overthrowing the Reverend Blair's chum Colonel Gaddafi has apparently not been told about, let alone agreed to, the democratisation of "trafficking networks" in its territorial waters; but that is, of course, a minor matter.

Death of a Salesman

As a retired Liberal Democrat voter, circa 2011 vintage, I cannot leave the subject of Thursday's fiasco without venting a little spite upon the head of Nick Clegg.

It is difficult to criticise Clegg's initial decision to go into coalition with the Conservatives. The five-year parliament act was not in force in 2010, so without such a formal arrangement Daveybloke could have pushed through a few "populist" migrant-bashing measures, called another election in a year or two and got in with a majority. What Clegg in fact did wrong was to spend five years acting as Tony Blair to Daveybloke's George W Bush, conniving at a vicious campaign of shock and awe unleashed on those least able to withstand it.

The first betrayal was not tuition fees, but proportional representation. In the amorous glow of the first rose-garden fervour, Clegg and his colleagues agreed to a wishy-washy compromise in the alternative vote, and then allowed the Conservatives and their chums to campaign against the change, using Clegg's own duplicity over tuition fees as ammunition. Since Clegg was at that stage relatively new to the game of dealing with his smarmy Mephistopheles, the error might have been forgivable had there been much sign of principle in other matters, There wasn't: Clegg and his troops toddled through the division lobbies on (and sometimes in) the arms of the Bullingdon Club for kicking the poor, privatising the justice system, running schools every which way, and throwing disabled people out of their houses. In return, the Bullingdons dished out sniggering humiliation at every opportunity, notably when Daveybloke and Osborne biffed off happily to Brussels in order to veto the Continent without deigning to inform their soi-disant partner first.

Least forgivable of all was the Health and Social Care Act, which was opposed by virtually everyone in the country except for the private healthcare lobby, the Bullingdon Club, some Turkey Twizzler salesmen and the Liberal Democrats. Breaking up and privatising the NHS, and incidentally absolving the Health Secretary of any responsibility for public health, were not part of either party's manifesto and were not specified in the coalition agreement (one Lib Dem peer said that it "drove a coach and horses" through the latter), but Clegg's robotic salesmanship and Shirley Williams' granny-of-the-Party act got it all shovelled through.

By 2014, when even Clegg and his ridiculous cohorts had realised that peeping out of Bullingdon suit pockets was pehaps not the best look in the world, virtually nothing remained. The Liberal Democrats had held more or less firm on the snoopers' charter and the EU, and a week before the election Clegg was making noises to the effect that he would sell out on Europe as well. It was the same approach that cost him MEPs, councillors, activists, party members and any veneer of a "new politics," and the response was entirely deserved. The Liberal Democrat vote was split five ways, between Labour, the Conservatives, the Greens, the Farage Falange and the sad, sagging, fleshless rump of Lib Dem voters who still seem to think the party stands for something. Few will mourn, because a party which offers nothing more than being not quite the same as the others is really no great loss.

The term that best fits Clegg, beyond a few from the Anglo-Saxon, is technocrat, a Newspeak word for those who view political office as a middle-management function between the corporations and the proles. They often do quite well for themselves, but not generally by pretending to be liberal or democratic; particularly when the pretence is as shallow and short-lived as Clegg's turned out to be.

Lessons For Labour

Just a bit of friendly advice, though they will certainly have worked out much of this for themselves.

First, Labour took Scotland's voters for granted for too long, and standing shoulder to shoulder with the Conservatives during the referendum campaign may have been the last straw. If there is another referendum, Labour should probably consider standing shoulder to shoulder with UKIP.

Secondly, English voters prefer a posturing, self-assured cripple-kicker to a vacillating, uncertain pretence of "decency". It's true that Duncan Smith's tawdry window-dressing Esther McVey lost her seat, but this may have been because she was too left-wing for hard-working families.

Thirdly, Labour must decide swiftly on a new leader. Much will depend on whether it elects a bland right-wing apparatchik like Chuka Umunna or an authoritarian Charles Clarke wannabe like Yvette Cooper. Umunna would be good for the hard-working black vote, but Cooper would be good for the hard-working female vote. Possibly having one as party leader and one as shadow chancellor would be a dream ticket for 2020.

Finally, the Deputy Conservatives are finished. They exercised little enough restraint on their masters in government, but as of today any hint of sanity regarding Europe is at the mercy of intellectual giants like Peter Bone. If it wishes to stay afloat in the choppy waters ahead, Labour must surf this wave of statesmanship to a new harbour of radical Britishness.

Onwards and upwards!

And This Year's Ian McEwan Award For Pompous Symbolism Goes To...

Entirely without relevance to Britain's choice between Ed Balls and the Bullingdons, an unmanned spacecraft named Progress has gone out of control and will soon fall to bits and mostly burn up. Some of the bits are substantial enough to crash onto the planet's surface, but human beings have a greater chance of being killed while driving or being struck by lightning than of being affected by Progress, which is of course foreign.

It's Hard to Draw Red Lines With Your Snout Still in the Trough

Having stuck to their principles on so much else, the Deputy Conservatives are now arguing over whether to surrender over Europe. Nick Clegg, ever the middle-aged man in a hurry and still remarkably susceptible to the lure of a red box and a pinky-purple Daveybloke dimple, believes deeply and sincerely that the nation's interests would best be served by throwing his European principles overboard now, while presumably keeping agreement to a snoopers' charter in reserve for those bumpy bits at mid-term. Vince Cable, the left-wing firebrand who did so much for hard-pressed British taxpayers by selling Royal Mail from under them at mates' rates for Conservative donors, believes deeply and sincerely that the nation's interests would best be served by not being quite so uncompromising with the willingness to compromise. Britain's future in Europe remains reasonably important to the Deputy Conservatives, although it falls short of being red-line material because red lines in the wrong places lead to red boxes in the wrong hands; however, it remains to be seen whether Europe will turn out to be as unimportant as free education, parliamentary reform, indefinite dention of refugees, the protection of the poor and vulnerable, or preserving the NHS and the justice system.

The Most Important Job Of All

Almost fifty more British jobs have been saved in the Mediterranean. An attempt by meddling Euro-wogs to interfere in the free movement of human resources between North Africa and Davey Jones' locker backfired when an approaching rescue ship caused a sudden deflation in the dinghy market. Fortunately, the motives for the foiled acts of migrancy are thought to have been purely materialistic.

Never a slave to considerations of mere decency, the British Government has been delaying its own grudging part in the rescue operations thanks to a previously latent concern with international law. Westminster may be intensely chillaxed about prisoners' rights and whether or not the urban prole has air to breathe; but in the face of migrant apocalypse even Britain's Head Boy becomes a bit of a stickler. Of course, quite aside from the obvious fact that more drownings are what Winston Churchill, the royal baby and Little Ivan would have wanted, Daveybloke's own career is now thought to be under some threat from an upstart Belgian.

The Choice

Just three days to go - then, quinquennial Night!
All parties, please take one more step to the Right.
The nation is in a most terrible plight!
All parties, precaution - one step to the Right.
We have a new Princess to aid in our fight!
All parties, tug forelock and step to the Right.
We may just be in for a terrible fright!
All parties, act normal: one step to the Right.
The wog is grown strong in the power of his might!
All in it together - one step to the Right.
The immigant horde is aboard the next flight!
Keep feet on the ground, and then step to the Right.
The Scots they are hooting; our doom is in sight!
Be calm in your squealing, and step to the Right.
If troubles are heavy, if troubles are light,
Whatever the problem, our remedy's Right.
If too many voters should rear up and bite,
We'll all join together, and set things to Right.

Davey Cleggiband

Rugged Individualists

The press regulator Ipso, which was established to protect the minions of Dacre and Murdoch from the ravages of Leveson, has duly rejected all complaints about the belles-lettres of the sub-Wildean scumbag-press wit Katie Hopkins. The piece in question referred to migrants as "cockroaches" and suggested using gunboats to prevent refugees coming over here and taking our Aryan jobs; the number of complaints ran into the hundreds, but Ipso has thrown them all out on the grounds that the column did not refer to a specific individual. This judgement appears to have been copied and pasted from an email by the Sun's own pet ombudsman, which stated that the column, being concerned entirely with mobs, hordes and swarms, "does not relate to any individual at all". The ombudsman is considering a further two complaints about accuracy; it remains to be seen whether the Freedom of the Press will withstand that storm as well.

Royal Baby Disappoints

Fury at royal slacker horror

The Duchess of Cambridge has given birth to a viable infantine resource with no known telegenic birth defects.

The result is likely to infuriate the Conservative Party, which had been hoping for a dead infant to help push them over the line in next week's election.

"It's a bit disappointing but we will soldier on," said a visibly deflated spokesbeing for Conservative Central Office when the news was announced. "We will just have to find other things for Dave to simper about.

"Dave and Kate are sort of blood relations, so you'd expect a bit of support between family members at a time like this, but of course it's the Royal Family's prerogative to use their own property as they see fit."

Treasury sources say the Chancellor had set aside up to £12bn for "the mother of all state funerals" in the event of the Duchess delivering the necessary pretext.

The Prime Minister, David Cameron, famously made use of his own dead and disabled son Ivan to win the trust of voters over the NHS in 2010.

He was promptly emulated by Gordon Brown, who tried to raise the bidding with a dead daughter and a disabled son, but the market had bottomed out.

Team Freer Touches Base

Finchley and Golders Green's sitting expenses claimant, Mike Freer, has at last favoured me with his attentions. His leaflet proclaims that my vote will deliver competent leadership (in the form of continued Osbornomics, more tax cuts, more kicking of poor people, and cheaper petrol) or a coalition of chaos (in the form of a legally constituted British political party such as the SNP pursuing its legitimate interests at Westminster). Having voted in favour of equal marriage rights, Mike Freer somehow comes over all reticent about the possibility of his own party having to shack up with the gay-bashing Democratic Unionists.

"Britain can't afford it and you'll have to pay for it," says Mike Freer, who represents the party that inherited a tentative economic recovery and turned it into a three-year depression for the profit of the one per cent. Curiously enough, Mike Freer neglects to make much political capital out of the Osbornomic miracle, especially now that the pledge to eliminate the deficit and achieve healthy growth within a single parliament has been so spectacularly fulfilled. Mike Freer professes himself keen on a local breast screening unit (he doesn't say whether he favours Serco, G4S or the Sun newspaper for the contract), but he rather inexplicably omits mention of that other little pledge about not imposing chaotic top-down reorganisations on the NHS, which was so spectacularly fulfilled by the grace and brilliance of Andrew Lansley and his consultants in the Turkey Twizzler business.

Mike Freer is also proud to boast of his part in abolishing "squatters' rights" (scare quotes in original), thereby charitably protecting those who can afford to leave a property empty against those who can't afford a place to live. Mike Freer is happy to echo his party's cant about "affordable homes", and also to avoid any mention of "rights" for tenants. Mike Freer is much concerned with the local community, but as so often before he displays remarkable reticence about the flagship of the Big Society thingy which has appeared on his watch, namely the local food bank. This means, of course, that Mike Freer denies himself the opportunity to inform his constituents why he imagines they use such a facility. Is it because they're lazy, feckless, and need money for booze or fags or tattoos? Is it because they don't manage their excessive social security payments well enough? Or is it just because it's there? I think we should be told.