Stop all the boats, cut off the RNLI’s phone
Toss the rabid Right a juicy little bone.
Silence the Libtards and with thumping drum
Bring out the Daily Mail, let Rishi’s Gammons come.
Let Suella’s Rwandan planes circle merrily overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘Your Asylum Claim is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of British doves
Let our humanitarian standing wear black cotton gloves.
“From the North, the South, the East and West
Fleeing conflict and war, we sought safety and rest.
You were our hope, our harbour, our Dover, our song
We thought you’d give us refuge. We were wrong.”
The EU’s stars are not wanted now: put out every one
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away all compassion as we enter these woods
For this Tory government can never come to any good.
It got her in the end, as she knew it would – sneaking past her defences in the third year. She wakes in the night, chilled to the bone, shivering uncontrollably no matter how deeply she burrows under the covers. For a second or two, she knows what it is to be old and permanently cold, scared witless by the winter ahead. She sees the true wickedness of ‘trickle-down economics’, the bad faith twined around its pitch-black heart.
Riddle me this: how is the bloated wealth of hedge fund manager Crispin ‘Odious’ Odey supposed to reach a pensioner subsisting on £134.25 per week? What path could it possibly take so that Elsie, 82, is able to both eat and heat this winter? When exactly would it reach her purse, given that trickle-down economics only ever trickles?
So you’re a journo? Sure, I’ve got five minutes if you make it worth my while. Jeff Harris, 56. Been running Cosplay Capers for around eight years.
Well, she was in on Friday sorting out her costume for the telly. We’re just round the corner from the F.O. and I’ve always got loads of Maggie gear – goes down well with the dominatrix crowd. So we had a rifle through and found that lovely pussy-bow blouse: Mags circa 1979, rocking her iron-fist-in-velvet-glove look. Pair it with a dark jacket, I says to Liz, and you’ll be the spitting image.
Yeah, I watched the debate. More Robot Lady than Iron Lady, if you ask me.
To tell you the truth, I don’t want any of ’em to win. Millionaires playing at politics, all Instagram and hot air. Bring on the general election.
Following yesterday’s No Confidence Vote, we unleashed our prototype BullshitTranslatorTM on a selection of Tory statements. Gratifyingly, our results were 99.9% accurate.
Test 1. MP JAMES CLEVERLY: ‘It was a comfortable win. It was a clear win. […] Everyone should respect democracy and get on with it. The party needs to pull together, support the government, support the PM, support the country.’
Translation: ‘A catastrophic result. An almighty disaster […] Everyone should politely ignore it and let us get on with dismantling democracy. The party needs to pull together, support the PM, support the PM, support the PM’.
“For I was hungry and you gave me foodsent me to a foodbank, I was thirsty and you gave me a drinkcut Universal Credit as prices soared, I was a stranger and you welcomed meput me on a plane to Rwanda, I was naked and you clothed megot yourself a flash new suit from Savile Row, I was sick and you visited mepartied on, I was in prisonneed of a lawyer and you came to mecut Legal Aid.” Then the Righteous One will answer Him, “Lord, we can’t just give handouts to any Tom, Dick or Jesus, especially when he’s a brown-skinned refugee.”
And the King will answer him, “Truly I say to you: you are a hypocritical, unchristian git.” Matthew 25:35-40
Rishi ‘Man of the People’ Sunak stares glumly at the sunset from his £5.5 million Santa Monica penthouse. Why are they being so mean to him? Alright, so energy bills have risen by 54%, the UK’s facing the worst slump in living standards since 1956 and inflation’s through the roof, but what exactly do they want him to do about it? He’s only Chancellor, after all. He couldn’t slap a windfall tax on the billion-pound profits of the Big Six, or backtrack on that NI rise. Well OK, he could.
And now they’re having a pop at his darling hyper-wealthy wife. It’s not like she can help being a billionaire’s daughter. Or like she did anything illegal by paying thirty grand a year to get out of 20 million quid in taxes. Morally repugnant, yes, but not illegal.
The wind picks up. He adjusts his designer hoodie and sighs. Should have stuck to being a Tech Bro.
Tim: Listen up — I’ve had a great idea for a Netflix series.
Mike: Oh yeah?
Tim: It’s a cross between The Manchurian Candidate, Inventing Anna and The Incredibles.
Mike: Go on…
Tim: So there’s this Russian guy, son of a London-based KGB agent turned oligarch in the post-Communist Wild West. They’re part of the filthy rich jet set, throwing parties at their Italian palazzo for celebrities and fun-loving politicians. One of these is a great pal – let’s say he’s a Mayor of London who becomes Prime Minister…
Mike: Hold up, Tim.
Tim: There’s more! Our chap gets citizenship, buys up some London newspapers, and then – in spite of repeated intelligence warnings – is made a Lord by his pal. The kicker is that they’re not even subtle: he’s something like ‘Baron Smirnoff of Henley-on-Thames in the County of Oxfordshire and of Siberia in the Russian Federation’. And that’s when the fun begins…