Leading the World

Wishy-washy crypto-Europeans are pestering the Imperial Haystack over the possibility that our brothers in Britishness, the House of Saud, are about to give another demonstration of Westminster values by violating international law as well as their own. Even under the Saudi penal code, juveniles cannot be executed; hence, anyone who is about to be executed cannot have been a juvenile at the time of their offence, and the facts that they were under eighteen when arrested and were held in juvenile detention are merely irrelevant obiter dicta taken out of context by politically-correct troublemakers. The charges include terrorist offences such as throwing Molotov cocktails, observing the movements of security forces and purchasing water with malicious intent; none of which would be out of place on a statute book concocted by the minions of Mad Tessie May. Accordingly, the Saudis have been putting out statements that the death sentence is legal; and amid the usual statements about the death penalty being subject to official disapprobation and occasional synchronised tutting, the newly independent Ministry for Wogs, Frogs and Huns has dutifully fallen into line.

Approved Techniques

Enthusiasts of genuine British values will rejoice in the revelation that the Home Office's henchpersons have bagged another migrant, however much that revelation may have been delayed by misplaced concern for foreign sensibilities. The cockroach in question was detained at a privately-run wog disposal centre when he breached the conditions of his bail; he suffered heart problems while in detention and was admitted to hospital, but died before the necessary surgery could be performed. For almost the entirety of the week he spent in hospital, he was chained up; presumably in order to ensure his proper appreciation of having been allowed to jump the queue. His request to be allowed to die at home with his family was denied.

It is, of course, no business of the state to interfere with the legitimate activities of private enterprise, and the Home Office seems to have displayed a respectful lack of curiosity about the conditions under which the marauding resource was being held. About two days before his death, the Home Office suddenly realised he was being kept in restraints and asked the company, GEO, to remove them. This GEO refused, apparently because the management were worried about the £10,000 fine which the Home Office could impose should the swarming element abscond.

This deplorable incidence of migrant noncooperativity occurred in 2012; since then, the Home Office has done everything it could to the facts from the public eye, purely out of humanitarian concern for the culprit's family. Although the relevant guidelines have been revised in favour of not chaining people up unless absolutely necessary, it remains unclear how much the Home Office fines its corporate chums in the event of a death in custody.

Discreetly Refined

In a country where private profit constitutes the sole legitimate purpose of public services, it is hardly surprising that the sole legitimate purpose of public culture should be to serve as an advertising billboard for corporate vandals. British Petroleum, whose performance art in the Gulf of Mexico was one of the situationist highlights of 2010, has co-opted the British Museum, the Royal Shakespeare Company, the Royal Opera House and the National Portrait Gallery, all of which will have the privilege of sharing in some seven and a half million pounds over five years. BP is also ending its advertising contract with Tate Britain, which has been remarkably discreet about the precise extent of the corporation's generosity: so discreet, in fact, that campaigners have had to go through the courts to induce Tate Britain to release the figures. A year and a half ago Tate was ordered not to spare BP's blushes regarding sponsorship between 1990 and 2006, which amounted to something under four million over seventeen years; now a tribunal has ruled that the figures from 2007 to 2011 must also be made public, despite their no doubt similar munificence. The lack of respect for BP's spinsterish sense of privacy has elicited squeals of righteous anger on the corporation's behalf from its employees in the public-relations industry. "What would you want companies to do with their profits?” demanded a former director of the BP Museum. “Do you want them to spend them in a way that benefits the public or not?" Clearly, as long as companies claim to be spending their profits for the benefit of the public, there should be no vulgar questions from the public about the extent of that benefit, let alone about what is being extracted in return.

Our Glowing Future

Despite the departure from the mayor's office of the garden-bridge-boosting, cable-car-dangling, skysore-pimping, bus-buggering London Haystack, let it not be supposed that the Government's Blanched Pachyderm Department has fallen idle. Britain will soon be celebrating its new-found independence from the Euro-wogs by throwing a few billion at a French company to start constructing the country's first nuclear power station in twenty years. Hinkley Point C is being shilled as the eventual supplier of seven per cent of Britain's energy for almost sixty years, and is optimistically scheduled for completion in 2025. The resignations from EDF's boardroom over the project have been prominent but evidently not disincentivising; and the likely eventual need for the British taxpayer to bail out the French company does mean the Government will have something worthwhile on which to spend all that money it has saved by starving the British solar industry.

All Farewells Should Be Sudden

In a touching example of corporate responsibility, a chain of burger bars with the poetic name of Byron has connived with the Home Office to get thirty of its staff arrested on suspicion of breaching the immigration laws. The company set up a health and safety training day for staff, which was then raided by the Wog Patrol who were no doubt thankful that they could have their fun during working hours instead of breaking down doors at three in the morning. The company "refused to respond" to claims that it facilitated the training on false pretences, but confirmed that it facilitated the raid; thereby confirming our new, happy sovereign Britain in which the notorious red tape of health and safety serves purely as a pretext for the vital task of migrant disposal.

Fair Play to Johnny Arab

Following the recent discovery by the Ministry of Wogs, Frogs and Huns that it had been saying the thing that was not even less undetectably than usual, certain un-British and anti-entrepreneurial elements are prevailing upon the Imperial Haystack to discriminate against Her Majesty's Government's brothers in Britishness, the House of Saud. In everything from the wealth and democratic accountability of its élite, through its robust attitude towards its more problematic citizens, to the cleanliness of its public life and the efficacy of its wog-bombing, Saudi Arabia is the very embodiment of the dampest, stickiest dreams in both the Labour and Conservative factions of the British Neoliberal Party. Hence it seems unconscionably unconstructive and pessimistic to assume that the House of Saud does not take all due care when using the weaponry sold to it under British export licenses; especially since, as everyone knows, such weaponry is always clearly marked Not to be used for nefarious purposes unless expediency requires. Nevertheless, various ignorant and backsliding persons have called for an independent investigation into the Saudis' conduct of their rampage in Yemen, even though Her Majesty's Government has already conceded that the Saudis should be compelled to rise to the standards of the British press, police and parliament, and investigate themselves.

Dissent Among the Heathen

While the greenest government ever has crippled the country's solar industry in accordance with the prevailing religious doctrine, the Heathen Chinee have indulged in a blasphemous and self-centred attempt to improve energy efficiency, reduce pollution and, dreadful to relate, deal with the world as it actually is. China's coal consumption, which grew massively for the first thirteen years of the century, now appears to have peaked and begun to fall, prompting the UN's climate overseer to start sounding off in favour of Stalinist interventionism in the free market, purely for the sake of improvements in health and in people’s lives. The policy of the Heathen Chinee, as anyone decently in the mainstream of the non-extreme centre would know, is fatally undermined by its roots in rational self-interest, its dependence on mere science and expert opinion, and its hidebound resistance to such civilised and necessary measures as felling trees, dredging rivers and gassing badgers.

Blips in the Nation-Building

Meanwhile, despite recent non-trivial deaths in Europe, the Fighting Islamic Sons of Tony continue their attempts to undermine the peace, freedom and democracy which are the natural free-market consequences of enlightened wog-bombing. Despite constant victories in the war on extremism, including Falluja being liberated all to hell for the third or fourth time, attacks continue to occur almost daily in and around Baghdad, as well as in other countries which are not nearly so used to them. The latest suicide bombing, which has killed fourteen people and injured more than thirty, appears to have been purely routine, involving neither migrants nor any casualties of designated journalistic significance.

Nocturnal Emissions

God dreamed a universe, and woke, and tried
To call the fading vision back to light.
Mad fragments blinked before His sluggish sight;
Blind masses flickered, disappeared and died.
Loud He proclaimed that from Him none could hide,
Pursued the phantoms with His senile might,
Commanded loud; but never more saw quite
By what rules that dream-world was justified.

Thus incomplete, unjustified, inane,
From peaceful darkness routed and annoyed,
This universe must stay till waking cease:
The sterile spillage of His nighted brain
Briefly polluting silence and the void
With senseless spatterings of galaxies.

Samuel Grimsnipe

Discreetly Disposed

As an indication of her government's intentions in the journalistic index of reliability, Mad Tessie's warm One Nation words at her coronation naturally trump anything she may have done during her six ugly and fact-proof years as Home Secretary. Accordingly, great is the surprise and loud the lamentation now that the Government has reneged on its pledge to end the imprisonment of children. On the last day of parliament, a flunkey from the Ministry for Wog Disposal sneaked out a statement announcing the closure of the accommodation which was opened five years ago, where support is provided by Barnardo's; and the removal of its junior migrant swarms to a prison environment where they will instead be subject to the tender mercies of G4S. The flunkey referred to the prison as a "discreet unit" and gave due reassurance that it would comply with the letter of the law; indeed, the discretion attending the announcement does rather stink of having nothing to hide.

Incorrectly Incentivised

Despite the lack of non-sneaky participation by British forces, the wog-bombing campaign in Syria seems to be going about as well as can be expected. It will be remembered that the crusades in Iraq and Afghanistan, ostensibly intended to wipe the scourge of terrorism from the face of the earth, led instead to some lucrative mercenary contracts and the appropriation of some conveniently ownerless petroleum. Ironically enough given that almost everyone had anticipated it except the Reverend Blair and his chum the chimpanzee, the stringing-up of Saddam Hussein, the decapitation of al-Qaeda and the superbly prolonged extirpation of the Taliban also led to widespread radicalisation and the rise of Islamic State, thanks largely to the shock and awe that accompanied those liberatising events. Having learned all appropriate lessons, the US and its satraps are continuing the good fight in Syria, where at least seventy-three civilians have been forcibly democratised because they were indiscreet enough to live in a strategic centre. The US admits to thirty-six civilian deaths from its daily wog-bombings of the past year or so; which makes perfect sense given the rules of engagement in most US-led military adventures, namely that males in strategic centres are enemy foot-soldiers, and women and children in strategic centres are human shields. Yet still people are somehow or other moved to join the terrorists, whose rules of engagement are not nearly so enlightened.

Cultural Minefields

About 2.3 per cent of the area formerly known as Yugoslavia is littered with unexploded bombs, mines and other mementoes from the 1990s freedomisations; and about fifteen per cent of the population live near the privileged zones. Among this number, the proportion of smartphone zombies is as yet unclear, but may soon undergo a salutary thinning-out. The new game Pokémon Go - which deploys the non-virtual world for the benefit of those who lack sufficient imagination to shoot virtual enemies, play virtual board games or fling virtual irritated avians at virtual squatting porcines, let alone read a book instead - has paradoxically exacerbated the usual smartphone syndrome of chronic inattention to one's surroundings: now that the surroundings have been hijacked by the game designers, the non-virtual world is deemed worthy of attention only inasmuch as it contains interactive virtual critters. Citizens of Bosnia have been warned to "respect demarcation signs of dangerous mine fields and not to go into unknown areas", in spite of the obvious cultural advantages of letting nature take its course.

When I Became a Minister, I Put Away Backbenchly Things

In what will doubtless be the first of many assaults on our new-found sovereignty, some interfering Euro-wogs have proclaimed that snooping on people who probably haven't done anything wrong is illegal, even when the snoopery is carried out on behalf of Her Majesty's Government and on the whim of Mad Tessie May. The verdict is the result of a legal case brought in part by the assiduous David Davis publicist David Davis, who has been known to posture noisily now and again as a champion of civil liberties. Unfortunately for British values, now that the newly-crowned snooper-in-chief has given David Davis his own little ministry with which to induce the Euro-wogs to give us all the privileges of club membership in return for none of the obligations, David Davis has discovered himself to be in substantial disagreement with David Davis, and has slunk away from the whole affair with his detumescent principles dangling between his legs. It is as yet unclear whether David Davis made his choice before or after he learned that he was going to be thrust into a house-share with Adam Werritty and the Imperial Haystack.

Sparing Themselves

Under different circumstances, the latest report from Oxfam might have come as a bit of a shock, especially to those who voted to leave the EU because they believed the Farage Falange's propaganda about hordes of darky types pushing us past the breaking point. The Oxfam report notes that the world's half-dozen biggest economies, which together account for more than half of global GDP, host slightly less than nine per cent of the world's refugees. Of that number, Germany has taken about a third, with the rest split between the US, China, Japan, France and our open, tolerant and oh-so-fragile selves. It appears that the UK has been driven to breaking point by a swarthy swarm of 168,937, or slightly more than the population of the vast and overcrowded conurbation that is Warrington. Meanwhile, another half-dozen countries - Jordan, Turkey, Pakistan, Lebanon, South Africa and Palestine - are dealing with more than half the problem while accounting for less than two per cent of the global economy; which of course seems only fair. Nevertheless, it might have come as a shock for our sovereignty-mongers to learn that the number of refugees living in their street and taking all their jobs is something less than the world population of scroungers, and certainly less than might be expected given the frequency and enthusiasm of the wog-bombings with which Britain has helped to motivate the future wards of G4S upon their way. Fortunately, given the present frenzy of cool reason among the saviours of our Britishness, these distasteful tidings are likely to remain largely unheard.

Keeping Things Civilised

Britain's brother in values, the Kingdom of Bahrain, has been accused of failing to investigate claims that opponents of the government are being subjected to torture, which in at least one case has resulted in a confession that led to a death sentence. Concerns have been raised by the US civil rights organisation Americans for Democracy and Human Rights, as well as by Amnesty International and the United Nations - which, since the accused is neither Russia nor Iran nor North Korea, Britain's leading liberal newspaper collectively dismisses as "campaign groups". ADHR filed a statement in 2014 to the effect that one dissident was tortured for four days before confessing to taking part in a bombing that killed a policeman. The statement was apparently overlooked by the relevant ombudsman because it was filed via email rather than via the appropriate complaint form; and this despite the fact that the Kingdom of Bahrain is constructing a new Royal Navy base and that the relevant ombudsman is funded by the British taxpayer via the Ministry for Wogs, Frogs and Huns. Fortunately, the Ministry has extruded a flunkey called Toby to proclaim that everything's all shipshape now; and the ombudsman, with all due independence, concurs.

Tackling the Problem at its Source

A veteran of the Reverend Blair's crusade in Iraq has been jailed for terrorism offences, along with a refugee who was shot and crippled during the late Head Boy's crusade in Libya. Although the danger of allowing dusky refugees into the country is well known, it remains as yet unclear whether the activities of Stephen Gray of Moss Side in Manchester will cause lessons to be learned or punditry perpetrated about the dangers of sending heavily armed British natives overseas to kill, maim and displace large numbers of foreigners.

The Ribbentrop Factor

The elevation of the ridiculous Boris Johnson from London Haystack to Imperial Haystack has elicited the expectable reactions from those who will henceforth be called upon to entertain him. The French and the Germans are shaking their heads sadly, the Spaniards think we're kidding, the Turks are standing on their dignity, the Iranians are giving us the hard stare, the Americans are sniggering at us, the Chinese are taunting us and the Ugandans are patronising us.

In fact, the Foreign Office is not what it was. The Bullingdon Club had no real interest in dealing with foreign governments; only with foreign profiteers. Now that the sniggering posh boys have given way to dead-eyed vulgarians (meritocrats, in Modern English), those foreign relations that matter will be handled by the new departments for international trade and Goodbye Euro-wogs. It's true that the former will be headed by an imbecile and the latter by a prima donna; but it does seem possible that Mad Tessie has conferred little of substance upon the Haystack except a golden opportunity to discredit himself permanently in the eyes of the world, the Great British Public and Big School.

Given that the Haystack has himself compared the EU to Hitler, perhaps I may be permitted a small Godwinism. During Hitler's early years in power, when he was aiming at relatively smooth international relations, he employed a strutting dimwit named Ribbentrop as his Foreign Minister, who made quite a name for himself at the start of the régime. When the Nazis began invading their neighbours and conquest was all that mattered, Ribbentrop was sidelined and was barely heard from again until the Nuremberg trials. Similarly, when one's idea of significant international relations consists entirely of barking orders at the wogs (David Davis) or yapping that someone else is to blame (Liam Fox), a proper Foreign Secretary is little more than a source of unnecessary trouble.

Unquiet Spirits

The ghosts of those who have not died
crouch in their cells and shuffle the coils,
rattle the bones in the brain-cage,
haunting the meat while it spoils.

Samuel Grimsnipe

Damaged Goods

It seems the new broom is just another old stick after all. Mad Tessie May has ejected the smirking schoolboy from the Treasury and replaced him with the empty suit from the Foreign Office, only to replace the empty suit with another smirking schoolboy who is, in addition, a liar, a wastrel, an incompetent and a buffoon. The blustering blimp Michael Fallon remains at Defence, and the Clegg-pledging frack-maiden Amber Rudd replaces Tessie herself at the Department for Detention and Migrant-bashing. A newly-created Ministry for Showing Johnny Euro-wog a Thing or Two About Britishness goes to the David Davis publicist David Davis, who will probably flounce off in a month or two if Tessie doesn't press the big red button. A new department for international trade, which will be in charge of negotiating new agreements once the EU has been successfully turned into a business rival, has been given into the charge of the vole-brained Liam Fox; so if nothing else, we can at least rest assured that Brexit will not harm Adam Werritty. Granted that, as a Conservative prime minister at the fag-end of British history, Mad Tessie does not exactly have the pick of the brightest and best; even so, most of the new blood is looking decidedly shopworn, and anyone who had hoped for a new sobriety at the top must be feeling a little bruised.

Last Rah-Rah

Britain's outgoing Head Boy has chaired his final Cabinet meeting before toddling off to spend more time with the wages of his pater's tax-dodging. With his usual sledgehammer tact, he had a bit of a simper about improving matters for the peasants; which, coming from the scrounger-baiting CEO of Food Bank Britain, must have elicited an appreciative snigger or two. Major achievements such as the three-year Osbornomic depression, the slowest recovery since the dinosaurs died out, the first doctors' strike in forty years, the racist van farce, the academies fiasco, and a respectable tally of flooded proles, dead Libyans, drowned refugees and massacred badgers, appear to have been modestly passed over. However, the Head Boy did find time amid the fun to express his pious hope that the dead-eyed prison warder will retain the nation's nominally independent capacity to kill a great many wogs while further degrading the environment. It seems at least probable that the table-banging enthusiasm which greeted this proposition was largely genuine.

Securing Your Country

Well, that was democratic, wasn't it? Britain's Head Boy's dictum that Brits don't quit having been proven false by Andrea Leadsom, Michael Gove, the London Haystack, the creepy Christian, Adam Werritty's little man and, with unseemly haste, the Head Boy himself, the election of our latest prime minister has been a matter for the grey suits and purple jowls of the 1922 Committee. Whether thick-headed and fanatical or treacherous and opportunistic, every single politician who campaigned to leave the EU has chickened out of taking any responsibility for the process, along with the simpering appeaser who called the referendum in the first place. All Mad Tessie May has had to do is sit around exuding her usual cold-porridge charisma while waiting for the others to drop. As a result, the well-fed smirks and glistening dewlaps of the Bullingdon Club will now be replaced with the dead-eyed sanctimony and dodgy rumour-control of a profit-oriented prison warder; and whatever is left of the country by 2020 will most likely be a rather substandard division of G4S, that famously efficient and law-abiding company with which Mad Tessie May has almost no marital affiliation whatever.

Doing the Decent Thing

Two months ago Britain's Head Boy told Parliament that he would do the decent thing for unaccompanied child refugees. In the absence of laws enforcing child labour (doubtless to be remedied post-Brexit), there seemed little risk of minor migrants stealing jobs from the white working classes; the donkey-work, and hence the blame, could be left to local councils and "partner organisations"; and funding was guaranteed for one year only, after which the minor migrants would be assured of all possible disincentives against living on handouts from the state. As might be expected given that the pledge was made to someone other than his own party's wogs-out wing, Britain's Head Boy has once more failed to deliver; and, as might be expected given that the pledge was purely humanitarian, the Home Office has failed even to give the appearance of trying. Not a single minor migrant has been allowed in; the minions of Mad Tessie May are disinclined to comment, being far too busy drawing up the contracts for G4S to run HM Megaprison UK; and Britain's Head Boy is no doubt preoccupied with the arrangements to spend more time with his tax avoidance.

From Victory to Victory

Meanwhile, in Afghanistan, the mission to expunge non-Saudi Islamic extremism grows ever more accomplished. Britain's Head Boy fought the 2010 election with a promise to withdraw all UK troops, and made a unilateral declaration of fulfilment three years later when he had withdrawn a few of them. A "support mission" of four hundred and fifty remained behind to instruct the lesser breeds in law and order and, no doubt, in the rudiments of clean and honest public service and the humane treatment of prisoners. In order to bring the region up to speed with his promises for the mainland, Britain's Head Boy has now decided to decrease our hardly-military-at-all-really presence to the tune of minus fifty, and to keep it there until next year. In accordance with the famous Bullingdon sense of responsibility, he has extruded a spokesbeing to blame everything on NATO, that famous force for good whose idea of collective security since the fall of the Berlin Wall appears to consist mainly in poking Russia with a sharp stick. Nevertheless, it still remains unclear when Britain's victorious sovereignty-zealots intend launching their campaign for the Kingdom's military independence.

Free At Last

We may not know for certain whether it was indeed the wog-bashers wot won it for Leave; but Britain's Head Boy's little party-management stunt has not been slow to reap results among this nation of proud tamers of uncivilised tribes. A resurgence in British values, long suppressed by the Euro-wogs' politically-correct refusal to let anyone say a word about immigration, has led to a glorious rise in persons of inferior Britishness being put in their place. The two weeks either side of the vote yielded three thousand reports of hate crimes and incidents; studies have suggested that only one in four such crimes are reported, so the real figure could be considerably higher unless the assassination of Jo Cox and the sight of the strutting Caudillo posturing in front of his echt-Nazi poster encouraged more of the Britannically-challenged to come forward.

Above All I Will Pay Tribute to Our Armed Forces

As with the donkeys of the Somme, the paternal pride with which the Reverend Tony and his chums regarded their boys in the armed forces did not preclude slicing through the occasional bit of politically-correct health-and-safety red tape here and there. The charmingly named "harmony guidelines" - the official limits beyond which troops are deemed to be at unacceptable risk of post-traumatic stress - were blithely disregarded in the interests of faster and more frequent recycling of IED-fodder. "The issue of the potential pressure on service personnel," according to the Chilcot report, "was not a consideration in the decision" to join the chimp's tea-party in Iraq; and the Ministry for Wog-Bombing admitted in 2004 that the guidelines were breached for almost a fifth of the army troops then participating in the crusade. Some senior military officers raised objections, which were brushed aside by politicians doubtless preoccupied with composing appropriate eulogies for those killed in action. Adam Ingram, the Minister for Supporting Our Boys, emitted a lengthy whine about all the military obligations which the UK had incurred, self-evidently through no fault of its own: "However, what was the solution? That [Iraq] was then something we had to attend to." Duty is duty, after all.

Depleted Urine

The day on which Sir John Chilcot exonerated the Reverend Blair, at least in the eyes of the Reverend Blair and his chum Jesus, was always going to be significant in the Conservative Party mainly as an opportunity to bury bad news. As usual, by leaping at the chance with his hob-nailed mouth Jeremy C Hunt has managed the remarkable coup de merde of making himself look even more toxically depleted than he did before. Hunt has announced that he intends to impose a contract on NHS staff, evidently in blissful ignorance of the fact that imposing an agreement makes about as much sense as warring for peace. Hunt has brought matters to this pass by using dodgy statistics while accusing his enemies of bad faith, almost as subtly as did the Reverend Blair during the Posturing Prelude to the onset of the Iraq crusade. Best of all, Hunt claims to be driving staff out of the NHS in order to save the NHS: a peace plan lifted more or less whole from the Bush-Blair strategy of de-Ba'athificatory purges which contributed so much to the peace, freedom and democracy of Iraq's post-liberation environment. Of course, it is unlikely that the casualties of Hunt's war on public health will achieve quite the same levels of collateral damage as the Iraq crusade; at least, not without a considerable stroke of luck. Nevertheless, it does take a very special kind of Stupid Party to try burying bad news by becoming it.

Little People, Silly People

I am sure we all remember the Syrian civil war, into which Britain's Head Boy was simply oozing to drag us before bestowing one on his party instead. Among the many humanitarian arguments in favour of profitable engagement was the Head Boy's claim that he could call on the services of seventy thousand tame jihadis, every one a decent chap for an Arab and willing, in return for some small consideration, to fight the beastly Assad at the command of the Great Pink Chief. Alas, the Head Boy's inspiring attempt to squeeze himself into the robes of T E Lawrence has been somewhat undermined by a report from Amnesty International, which finds that some of the groups opposing the beastly Assad like to play rather rough on their own account. The do-gooders have tried to undermine Britain's blissful post-veracious political environment by documenting abductions, torture and summary public executions, and have even gone so far as to call for an arms embargo against groups which are implicated in such acts of tough love. It is as yet unclear whether Britain's Head Boy plans to whip the barbarians into shape himself during the remainder of his time in office, or instruct them to serve his no doubt equally godlike successor.

Until He Rise Again

The rock of wog-outery's cleft!
The blimps and the bullies bereft!
Alas! must he go?
O pearl-clutching woe!
The strutting Caudillo has left!

He met Rupert Murdoch to talk
While Werritty's man came to gawk.
Great wonder because
The Yankee from Oz -
That migrant - told Nigel to walk!

Amid the laments of his lackeys
And wails of the weirdoes and wackies,
His great work now done,
It's time for some fun
With booze and some bashing of Pakis!

Rex Bitter

Good Clean Fun

Forty complaints, the highest number for any film last year, reached the British censor over some suggestions in Spectre that violence might be messy or painful. The twenty-fourth dollop of patriotic sado-candyfloss features eye-gouging and head-drilling; both scenes were made more humane before the 12A release was allowed, but it seems that even sound effects and facial expressions are too much for some. In the case of the Bond character, unwilling beneficiary of the cranial exploration, there is also a comforting lack of actual suspense, since the audience knows he will inevitably survive and prevail; nevertheless, pearls were duly clutched and the squeals of the disgusted duly rose in their eternally recurring tribute to Tunbridge Wells. The BBFC defended itself by stating that any suggestion of the violence doing actual harm had been edited out and that, in any case, the film made a great deal of money; which certainly settles the matter.

Significant Respect

Two days before her assassination, Jo Cox tabled two questions with the Ministry for Wogs, Frogs and Huns about the Government's Islamic fundamentalist chums in the House of Saud. Cox asked the Ministry for an assessment of the UN's decision to remove the Saudis and their allies from the list of states and armed groups which violate children's rights during conflicts. The Government has indicated its respect for the murdered MP by extruding a flunkey called Toby to shrug off her questions in the usual manner. Toby conceded that the Saudi-led and Westminster-condoned rampage in Yemen was having a "significant impact" on children, including collateral damage and possibly premature career opportunities in the military. Thanks to the fog of war, it remains unclear how many of the affected children are genuinely significant, by virtue of being products of hard-working families. Nevertheless, the Government "continues to support the work of the UN on children and armed conflict" by continuing to arm its Islamic fundamentalist chums while instructing them quite assertively not to use the weapons for nefarious purposes. Answering questions costs money, so Toby economised by giving the same answer to both questions.

It Matters Not Who Won Or Lost

Limbs splintered and guts splattered; screaming done
At last, he saw a fine old man appear,
Who said: Well done, my lad! be of good cheer!
You've rescued Belgium and you've kicked the Hun.
Your mother, rest assured, we shall not shun.
This venture could run on another year;
She'll do her part and like it, have no fear.
Her grief we'll use, her tears the Press will run.

For ever now a part of foreign field,
Hard-working beast of burden, meat well sold,
Rest easy that you fought and did not yield
Except to some few fibs that you were told.
Fear not, my son; your sacrifice and pain
Will profit us; they have not been in vain.

Manly Britton