Flushed Out

Three-quarters of England's major sewage outlets are off limits to the public, even when the latter are not celebrating the latest heatwave by trying to drown themselves. Such is the delirious Britishness of the situation that major designated walking trails are unable to follow the rivers for which they are named; and in keeping with our fundamental values, there is no statutory right to ninety-six per cent of the rivers in the Anglo-Cymric Agglomeration of Nations. It is likely that the situation will change once the country's wholesale conversion into an infoslop farm necessitates the further privatisation of rights and socialisation of liabilities; for the present, landowners are fortunately available to exert whatever prerogatives their consciences allow.

On What Is, and Is Not, An Emergency

Nearly sixty per cent of those arrested for violent disorder during a recent outpouring of spontaneous indignation against police persecution of the poor little master race had also been reported for domestic abuse. Twenty-two of the thirty-seven detained warriors for British values are not only wife-beaters but self-righteous wife-beaters; which doubtless accounts for the response from the Ministry for Wog Disposal. A spokesbeing proclaimed that "violence against women and girls is a national emergency," but made no mention of violence against ethnics, foreigns, migrants, asylum seekers or other causes of legitimate and understandable concern; thereby magnanimously leaving open the possibility that the race rioters are merely seeking a socially acceptable outlet for their plucky bulldog patriotism.

Radiating Goodwill

One of the world's more primitive, authoritarian and violent theocracies has further destabilised the Middle East by striking a nuclear deal with Saudi Arabia. The Trumpster and his head-tribble have consented to permit their fellow royals to enrich uranium, thereby ensuring that the head-chopping House of Saud relies on American technology rather than that of the beastly Russians or the Heathen Chinee; and should they ever step out of line, there's always the possibility of tariffs and good old democratisation by detonation to keep things civilised. Since the Persian Crusade was ostensibly started in order to prevent Iran enriching uranium, the announcement will also serve to emphasise, for anyone who may have forgotten it, the subtle but vital distinction between evil fundamentalist head-choppers and virtuous fundamentalist head-choppers.

Heritage Police

Austria's government is seeking to deter far-right pilgrimages to Hitler's birthplace by installing a police narcotics unit in the building. The site is close to the German border, so the area is also frequented by traffickers of non-political drugs; and it is assumed that the police will be able and willing to detect any illegal neo-Nazi displays which may happen to take place under their noses. Presumably this will have the self-evidently beneficial effect of forcing the far right to continue its incursions into the mainstream, where the adoption of policies that might cut down its share of the vote would be just as immoderate and unsensible in Austria as in the rest of the civilised world and Westminster.

Thirst for Knowledge

So pragmatically sensible are Team Starmer's plans to turn the country into a moderately-sized infoslop production park that no account has been taken of the quantity of water required to do so. None of the hot air comprising the Government's AI bubble policy says anything about water, although Team Burnham's plans for "public control" may well include some convenient mechanism for ensuring that the taxpayer gets appropriately soaked. Nor does the Environment Agency's latest national framework for water resources include any estimate of the consumption rate once every high street has been graced with an infoslop emporium. Fortunately infoslop emporia have been designated as critical national infrastructure, which economically inert human beings patently are not; so doubtless the more expendable plebs can look forward to many more finger-waggings, both online and off, regarding the responsible use of moisture.

God's Own Charlie

There are few things tyrants like less than having attention called to their mistakes, and the Deity is evidently no exception. A New York sculptor, and an immigrant to boot, has spent a hundred thousand of his own money to create a graven image of the martyred Charles James Kirk, who was killed last September by an assassin's bullet which Baby Jesus and His family connections unaccountably failed to deflect into someone less important. The artist modestly compares his motives with those of da Vinci and Michelangelo, both of whom created work on commission for people who would probably agree with Kirk on such matters as the rights of non-Christians and the proper position of women in society. Alas, the Deity's wounded pride seems to have brought down a curse upon the sculpture, which instead of the anticipated millions has raised only a lot of messages from people wishing to give it an organic baptism, and has also indirectly caused the modern Leonardo di Buonarroti to break his foot. With a faith of which the prophets would be proud, the great man insists that the piece is not cursed but blessed, and has announced a plan to dump it in Times Square on the anniversary of Kirk's transfiguration. In light of the Deity's famously refined sense of humour, it is certainly to be hoped that nothing unfortunate occurs.

A North Wind Doth Blow

A north wind doth blow
And Burnham's a go,
And what will Keir Starmer do next, poor thing?
He'll mooch off to be
Where freebies are free,
And suits are all vacant and grey, poor thing.

A word-wind doth blow
With pledges on show,
And what will Keir Starmer do next, poor thing?
He'll bench at the back
And brief the odd hack
On how all the racists are vexed, poor thing.

An ill wind doth blow
And bile is in flow,
And what will Keir Starmer do next, poor thing?
He'll clean out the rot
(Fictitious or not)
By which his career has been hexed, poor thing.

A war-wind doth blow
And wogs must eat crow,
And what will Keir Starmer do next, poor thing?
He'll pose as a sage
Upon the world stage,
And look like a clerk come unsexed, poor thing.

A headwind doth blow
And growth has been slow,
And what will Keir Starmer do next, poor thing?
He'll head to the trough
And have a good scoff,
And trust that the swill is enough, poor thing.

Sir Anthony Fondles

Thrift is for the Little People

Moisture provision profiteers are losing about a fifth of the water they pump because of leaky pipes, according to research by Greenpeace. Naturally, this wastage makes it all the more necessary to wag the finger at moisture consumers and exhort them towards more prudent use of what is left. A corporate spokesbeing pointed out that the captive market is very selfishly responding to the heatwaves by using more water, and that moisture provision profiteers are "fixing leaks, moving water across regions and running treatment works flat out to keep supplies flowing" - which, given that their primary function consists purely in profiting their shareholders and enriching their executives, is obviously rather charitable of them.

Not Quite Caught Up

Despite Britain's steady progress with regard to Fascism and changing governments every two years, it does not appear that a corresponding cultural enlightenment has yet occurred in Italy. The country's notoriously slow legal system has convicted and sentenced thirty-two people over the fatal collapse of a bridge in Genoa eight years ago, in which forty-three people were killed. This stands in stark moral contrast to the Grenfell Tower fire, which occurred a mere nine years ago last month and killed seventy-two, and for which our revered English justice has yet to prosecute, let alone convict, a single person or corporate entity.

They're Coming Home

Who says the special relationship is dead? After only a quarter of a millennium, the American colonies are seeking a return to British values by issuing currency depicting the current monarch alongside some sniggerably uplifting slogans. The Trumpster's amusingly-named Commission of Fine Arts has approved the design for a commemorative £0.74 coin featuring the words IN GOD WE TRUST next to a royal portrait with brows knitted and head-tribble rampant. Unlike the British sovereign, the coin is not solid gold; doubtless because American bullion reserves are already under some little strain what with the likely tastefulness of the decoration in the White House ballroom.