A Burnt-Out Cable

As the country allows itself a brief period of Schadenfreude over the impending final demise of Tumbledown Tessie, and begins the long slow business of resigning itself to whatever the nationwide rotten borough that is the Conservative Party membership may next choose to inflict, some may find it strange that the former Deputy Conservatives have chosen this day of all days to announce the forthcoming resignation of the dead-eyed warden's sometime Cabinet colleague, the Bullingdon Club's Minister for Mates' Rates. In fact, of course, such reticence is understandable enough. Aside from the residual need to follow their former masters in all things, the former Deputy Conservatives are undoubtedly aware that political resignations tend to stimulate an unhealthy urge to examine legacies. The liberal statesman who sat happily back during the bonfire of regulations that probably helped bring about the Grenfell Tower disaster; the statesmanlike democrat who accepted a knighthood for services rendered to the Bullingdon Club; the democratic liberal who toddled complacently through the lobbies time and again in favour of poor-bashing, migrant-baiting, NHS-flogging, wog-bombing and smirking, sniggering racism - this suppurating Picture of Dorian Orange is hardly the sort of façade the former Deputy Conservatives will wish to present just as their latest Unique Selling Point - Remain until the next rose-garden - seems at last to be fooling some of the people some of the time. Indeed, with a legacy of this magnitude, which did so much to elevate the Farage Falange and others equally fragrant to their present degree of public prominence, the only surprising thing is that Pigsticker Dave's little yellow fags felt sufficiently emboldened to make any announcement at all.

Without A Single Bullet Being Fired

With British democracy once again under threat from foreign elections, the strutting Caudillo of the New Real Provisional Farage Falange has shown what he is made of, cowering courageously in his sugar-proof battle-bus while leaving the police to face an onslaught of hooded men armed with cold drinks. Presumably the Caudillo was still a bit shell-shocked from his recent messy encounter with a milkshake flavoured with banana, a notoriously foreign fruit; nevertheless, as a preparation for Victory in Europe Redux his performance fell somewhat short of donning the old khaki and taking to the streets with his Lee-Enfield.

UN Vote: Majority Isolated

Not content with allowing rapporteurs to make libellous allegations about the Conservative Party's idleness police, the general assembly of the United Nations has very carelessly voted against Britain's occupation of the Chagos Islands, and has thereby placed itself tragically out of step with the mainstream of the international community. A hundred and sixteen countries voted in favour of the Senegalese motion, while Britain was supported only by the Maldives and by the Conservative Party's fellow race-baiters in Australia, Israel, Hungary and the United States. Fifty-six countries abstained, which naturally indicates that they were uneasy about backing the motion; who, after all, could ever be uneasy about backing Britain? In any case, those who pass for diplomats in the present Ministry for Wogs, Frogs and Huns had already resigned themselves to defeat. The problem with the Chagos Islands is a problem of decolonisation; and despite the rest of us having long since drawn lines, moved forward and accomplished missions, decolonisation remains, in the delicate phrasing of Britain's leading liberal newspaper, a totemic issue for the uncivilised tribes.

Moderately Unacceptable

Contrary to squealing, purple-visaged, pram-crashing appearances, there are still a few moderate Conservatives lurking among the ruins of Tumbledown Tessie's party. Lord Heseltine is so moderate that he served with Norman Tebbit and Peter Lilley under the great one-nation prime minister who demolished the country's manufacturing base, denounced striking workers as the "enemy within" and passed Clause 28. Lord Heseltine is so moderate that the party has temporarily withdrawn the whip, although it remains to be seen whether it will be restored as quickly as if Lord Heseltine had said something racist.

Similarly moderate is a group of MPs which has recently launched a minifesto giving the rah-rah to "human rights, social responsibility and the fight against injustice;" the sincerity of the group's aspirations may perhaps be gauged by the membership of Amber Rudd, who has done so much for the Windrush generation and who has been known to advocate naming and shaming companies for employing too many foreigners. One of Rudd's fellow moderates, who is so moderate that she is still serving in Tumbledown Tessie's rabidly moderate government, has publicly disapproved of Boris Johnson's candidacy for coronation once the dead-eyed warden finally takes the hint. The former Imperial Haystack is an unacceptable candidate, according to Margot James, because he said "fuck business" when asked about corporate worries over the Recrudescent Imperium's approaching independence from the Euro-wogs. The lying, the racism, the demeaning of the office of Foreign Secretary, the eight years as mayor of London when he responded to illegal levels of air pollution by sitting back and fiddling with his taxpayer-funded vanity projects: all these are forgotten, forgiven or (as no doubt with the racism) positively praiseworthy to the moderate Conservative mind; but using bad language about the business community is simply not on.

Careless Talk Costs Lives

We have learned to expect all manner of shabby tricks from the ghastly Euro-wogs, so it will come as no surprise that the beastly Boche have utilised the maunderings of an elderly woman in the furtherance of their fiendish federalism. It seems that the unfortunate lady made some out-of-context remarks which were overheard by a foreigner with a funny name, and were subsequently transmitted by him to the very depths of the Euro-wog conspiracy. Evidently the nuances of documentary declassification are lost upon the forces of the Hun, with their limited enthusiasm for Whitehall's conception of transparency and democratic oversight. The victim, whose migrant-descended family are believed to be living on taxpayer-funded benefits in various large houses, has made an effort to keep out of politics except when discussing the niceties of her own tax bill, and the falsity of the slander may be judged by the fact that it contradicts the impartial and patriotic testimony of both the scumbag press and the British Broadcasting Conservatives.

The Father of Teeth

Text for today: I Caries xxxi-xl

Later, finding himself once more among the dentists, the Father of Teeth was rushed into the sacrificial chair and angled with breakneck zeal towards the hot and holy light. An acolyte in a white coat came forth, holding in his right hand the instruments of purification and in his left a libation of royal purple in a plastic beaker. The maw of the Father of Teeth glittered black and mahogany in the searchlight's sacred beam, while he clawed unerringly for the acolyte's crotch and guided him, very nearly painlessly, to replace the Father of Teeth on the altar of virtue.

"Will it hurt?" the acolyte inquired according to the ritual; but there was awe in his grin as the Father of Teeth loomed over him and bared his luminous magenta gums.
"Don't worry," answered the Father of Teeth, flexing his face towards a hideous approximation of the traditional smile of reassurance; "we're just going to scrape off the plaque."

Expertly he flicked a switch, and penetrating whines of eagerness were heard from the exquisitely sharpened instruments. "Open wide," said the Father of Teeth, and the acolyte complied in a delirium of mystical receptivity.

And when the festival of moral and oral hygiene was ended and the receptionist dared to peep around the surgery door, the light from the acolyte's hovering grin was truly blinding; so much so, indeed, that neither then nor ever afterwards could the dumbstruck receptionist or the screaming police be sure that anything but the grin had remained of him.

Don't Let's Be Beastly to the Fascists

In older and greater days, such as those to which the New Real Provisional Farage Falange urges our immediate return, the measure of a man was his conduct in the face of physical peril. Unlike the panicky lesser breeds, a worthy wearer of the white epidermis of Albion was supposed to show pluck and stand fast, come Hell, high water or a hail of soft drinks. Unfortunately, it seems the stout-full yeomanry of today's freedom fighters are not quite up to this exalted standard: after some trouble with snowflakes provoked by racism, rape jokes, bullying and other robust manifestations of the British sense of humour, the tough-talking libertarians have gone squealing to the police for protection. In advance of a rah-rah in Edinburgh, a McDonald's restaurant has acceded to a police request not to sell milkshakes or ice-cream in case they are put to nefarious use by terrorists. It's a touching gesture of solidarity between corporate clowns pushing tasteless crap, of course; but it remains to be seen whether Edinburgh's throwable resources have thereby been completely exhausted. Older readers may recall, with appropriate emotions, how Farage's spiritual predecessor, the tangerine migrant-baiter and serial party founder Robert Kilroy-Silk, was dunked in liquefied cowshit by a morally bankrupt opponent: a course of action which certainly should not be condoned or recommended by any responsible traitor.

Teach Them to Fly Underwater

Ravens have hatched at the Tower of London for the first time in thirty years; and on St George's Day to boot. Omens and portents can be slippery little buggers, as those great Englishmen Oedipus and Macbeth could both testify to their cost; and this happy event is no exception. To begin with, the parents are named Huginn and Muninn, after two unnaturally well-travelled servants of a foreign god whose migrant worshippers were noted for their unpleasant ways with hard-working British families. Then, while tradition undoubtedly predicts ill fortune for Tower and Kingdom alike should the ravens leave, it is by no means clear that the arrival of more ravens is anything to crow about. The last time it happened, after all, was on the eve of John Major's accession to Downing Street, whence followed a period of stagnation, corruption, xenophobia and petty nastiness which was comparable to the Kingdom's present glories in much the same way as the 1990 attack on Iraq was comparable to the 2003 adventure: the later version was bigger, stupider, more murderous and wore a grin of fatuous triumph rather than a frown of sanctimonious constipation, but the basic outlines remained recognisably fraternal. Today the Tower is famous as a place where people waited to have their heads chopped off at the whim of hereditary monarchs, and as the site of a double infanticide supposedly carried out on the orders of a Machiavellian hunchback; the Kingdom is divided on such fairly basic questions as the century it is living in and which bit of continental shelf it is sitting on; so the nation's citizens of nowhere and other traitors might arguably be justified in pondering whether the Tower and the Kingdom are really worth the ravens' efforts in propping up.

Dauntless Dimness

The Recrudescent Imperium's new Secretary of State for Wog-Bombing has lost little time in positioning herself as a worthy successor to the likes of Gavin Williamson, Liam Fox and Butcher Hoon. Having proposed to avoid prosecutions of British troops for crimes against lesser breeds, unless in "exceptional circumstances" where such a prosecution would benefit the Conservative Party, Penny Mordaunt decided there was no reason why Britain's brave boys should be caught in any nasty Northern Irish backstops. The response from the breakaway Republic of Ireland was predictably unsporting, and Mordaunt's own ministry had initially made clear that uppity colonials are not exactly the same as terrorists; but this in itself provoked squeals of indignation from the likes of Marc de François and other men of action on the Conservative back benches, who ejaculated oracular admonitions against placing British subjects under the rule of law. It remains as yet unclear whether Mordaunt has sufficient Williamsonian vision to respond by introducing a Kill a Mick and Win a Skoda clause.

Another Punishment Beating

So effective and thoroughgoing have been the compliant Sajid Javid's improvements at the Ministry for Wog Control, and so sincere and unrelenting the dead-eyed warden's concern for helping the victims of modern slavery, that the beastly Euro-wogs have been allowed to swindle some of Britain's most deportable people out of £600,000, with almost another three million at risk. The Government had intended to use the money for breakfast clubs among the less affluent learning emporia, but changed its mind in favour of a show of disapproval for modern slavery, presumably because someone told Tumbledown Tessie that foreigners are to blame. However, this saintly initiative has been martyred by the beastly Euro-wogs with their fiendishly cunning strategy of expecting Her Majesty's Government to do its paperwork properly and submit the forms on time. As a result, Britain is the only EU member state which has failed to use the programme to aid its citizens, while mighty Slovenia and those robotically efficient Italians go sniggering all the way to the bank. A spokesbeing from the Ministry for Wog Control was expectably forthright in blaming the beastly Euro-wogs for their temerity in enforcing rules to which Her Majesty's Government is a signatory, but it remains as yet unclear whether the balance of the money is to be shaved off the "divorce payment" or simply extracted from what remains of the weekly bonanza after the NHS has been set up for life.