BBC execs have today confirmed the exciting news that the 2020 series of Top Gear will be presented by Mary Berry carrying an otter.

Following the sacking of steak-hungry producer-puncher Jeremy Clarkson, and the subsequent resignations of inconsequential sycophant Richard Hammond and that other prick whose sole contribution was to laugh at Clarkson’s racism and say ‘oh cock’ a lot, producers of Top Gear have visibly struggled to settle on the future direction of the once-flagship show.

Their initial response was to set up a two hundred-strong presenting team headed up by unlikeable twat Chris Evans, as he engaged in a hilariously futile competition for attention with the hot one out of Friends. Following Joey’s effortlessly comprehensive victory over Evans, however, he quickly became bored of producing basically the same programme every week, leading to another enforced change of personnel.

Today’s announcement that some guy who once did quite a good cricket and the presenter of ‘Blind Date For Cunts’, Paddy McGuinness, would be taking over raised a few eyebrows, but it’s the succession planning for when that inevitably goes tits up that has created the most excitement.

A spokesperson for the BBC said,

“Look, people who watch Top Gear are basically morons anyway. All they need to keep them happy is a familiar face twatting about in a fast car while shouting barely coherent slogans like ‘mental’ and ‘epic’ every few seconds. That said, Mary Berry is a national treasure, and we are confident that she will bring all the right ingredients to the Top Gear experience in 2020. Make sure you stress ‘ingredients’, ok, because that’s really fucking clever.”

When asked to explain the thinking behind the otter’s inclusion, the spokesperson said:

“What the fuck are you talking about? Who doesn’t like otters? Adorable little whiskery bastards. What sort of fucking question is that anyway? We’re done here.”

It has been intimated that further additions to the team will be announced in the next few weeks, with Sir Trevor McDonald and that endlessly punchable cunt off the ‘Go Compare’ adverts among the favourites.

 

The 2018 World Cup has been declared the worst thing in living memory by a succession of pitifully insecure manbabies whose testicles spontaneously wither and die like unpicked grapes at the first sniff of anything that even vaguely resembles sexual equality.

This outpouring of misogynistic Y-front shitting began a week ago when it was first revealed that, not only were women going to be allowed to have opinions about football, but that they would actually be broadcast to homes across the UK, where they would inevitably be heard. By men. 

The petulant screeching reached fever pitch today, when former England international Eniola Aluko had the actual fucking temerity to disagree with Northern Irish penis-owner Martin O’Neill about whether a certain incident in the Australia v Denmark game constituted a penalty. It was unanimously agreed by Twitter’s committee of basement-dwelling incels with West Ham Utd avatars that ‘that woman’ didn’t have the first fucking clue what she was talking about, whilst Slaven Bilic, who agreed with her, was given a pass on account of his being in possession of a set of those well-known dispensers of football-related knowledge, testicles.

Window cleaner and born-again virgin, Simon, 46, from Stevenage, said,

“I’m so fucking angry right now I could smash up my mum’s TV. The only pair of tits I expected to see on Match of the Day were Alan Shearer and Danny Murphy, and now I’m supposed to tolerate being faced with a woman who wouldn’t have to stand there in bemused silence while I condescendingly explained the offside rule to her? Fuck that. The World Cup can get to shit as far as I’m concerned.”

Norman, 33, from Dorset, who has been temporarily sleeping on his friend’s sofa for the past two years after his wife finally realised what a bastard he is, agreed, saying,

“This politically correct posturing has gone too far. First they tell us we’re not allowed to grab birds’ tits at work, and now this. It’s the fucking limit. It’s this kind of shit that led to Karen thinking she deserved more than dismissive grunting and uninspiring fortnightly sex. The fucking bitch.”

We approached BBC pundit Alex Scott for a comment, but her agent justifiably pointed out that she was too busy being successful, knowledgeable and erudite to waste her time responding to the eminently fucking cunty whining of pin-dicked internet wankers.

Former Downing Street communications guru Nick Timothy has claimed that World War Two was started by a pissed off Nazi party staffer while Hitler was away on his holidays. Previously best known for taking a colossal fucking shite on the Conservatives’ 2017 election campaign, these shocking revelations catapulted disingenuous wankbiscuit Timothy back to the forefront of the public consciousness for the best part of an entire afternoon.

Writing in racism-fuelled, bastard-pleasing hate brochure, The Sun, Timothy said,

“That whole massive fucking six-year barney wasn’t even Adey’s fault. He’d gone off to Benidorm with the lads for a bit of sun and a few lagers, and some other dickhole invaded Poland while he was gone. Naturally, he was furious about it when he got back, but what could he do? It would have been embarrassing to roll the whole thing back at that point so it was really out of his control. If you think about it, he had to do at least a little holocaust or he’d have looked like a right fucking pie.”

Mr Timothy went on to say that his claims were definitely true and that he had the documents to prove it but they were secret documents that only he could see and anyway why would he lie.

Reaction to the story has been mixed in the same way that responses to stories about puppies being shot in the face are mixed: the only people who don’t recoil in horror are full time fucking arseholes. In this case, that arsehole was shite-flinging toad emulator Nigel Farage, who said,

“I’ve been saying for years that The Führer gets a bad press and this proves I was right all along. He was a bloody good bloke, actually. Bloody good bloke. I used to love singing songs about him when I was a nipper and his book was the fucking tits. Shame he only got to do the one, really.”

We attempted to contact Sun editor and greasy, unfuckable malice-repository Tony Gallagher via Twitter, but it turns out he’s a big, wet, fluffy snowflake who has to hide behind a protected account to avoid outing himself as a pathetic, snivelling cunt.

Theresa May has today reacted with indifference to the news that the consumer goods giant Unilever will move its corporate headquarters to Rotterdam.

In a statement, Mrs May described Marmite as being ‘fucking horrible’ and said that Dove soaps and shower products ‘make your coochie itch’.

She continued, “I bought a Magnum last year to cool myself down after I’d had a little run through some wheat fields, and as soon as I bit into it a big fucking lump of chocolate fell off onto my dress. If that’s the kind of shit they’re peddling, they can piss off.”

While some have expressed concern about what this says about the UK’s attractiveness to large businesses following the Brexit vote, the Prime Minister was adamant that the move represented no real loss.

“I’m led to believe that the plebs enjoy something called a ‘Pot of Noodles’, but I’m reliably informed that the same effect can be achieved by adding strips of cardboard to a Cup-A-Soup, so they really need to stop their malnourished whining and get behind this.”

A spokesman for Unilever said, “This has absolutely nothing to do with Brexit. It is entirely coincidental that we chose to jump ship in the middle of your transformation into a petty, isolationist little island whose chief exports are imperial nostalgia and shouty racism.”

Jeremy Corbyn is said to be considering a full time career as a Nigel Farage impersonator following his recent attempts to emulate the amphibious, racist jizzmop in a series of increasingly bizarre speeches.

Mr Corbyn first indicated that he was a fan of Mr Farage, who is best known for his resemblance to a disconsolate salamander, last week, when he parroted his comprehensively discredited claim that there will be some sort of ‘Brexit dividend’ after the UK leaves the EU. At the time, it was assumed that Mr Corbyn had fastened his cardigan up too tightly, thereby restricting blood flow to his brain, but this theory was later discounted because he was wearing a shirt and tie at the time.

Corbyn’s apparent admiration for Britain’s least electable Nazi was further crystallised yesterday afternoon, when he went ‘full UKIP’ with the claim that employers are using EU labour to undercut British workers, despite a plethora of studies showing that EU migration has had no negative impact on wages and conditions.

A spokesperson for Mr Corbyn said, “It just seems like a natural progression. He’s taken off his sandals and dipped his toe into the pool of lazy dog-whistling, and his supporters don’t seem to give a solitary fuck. At this stage, he could wank a horse off live on Channel 4 News, and his base would almost certainly refer to anyone who found it even slightly distasteful as ‘Tory scum’. As far as we’re concerned, he’s a tweed jacket and a Poundland lizard mask off making an absolute fuckton of cash. He’s also very much looking forward to his fortnightly Question Time appearances.”

One of Mr Corbyn’s most loyal supporters, Summer Meadows, was fully supportive of his new career, saying, “If Jez wants this, it simply has to be the right thing and no amount of evidence to the contrary will convince me it’s not. Hashtag JC4PM.”

Mr Farage was unavailable for comment as he was attending the EU Parliament like he’s fucking supposed to. Kidding, LOL, he’s in America desperately prostrating himself in front of a guy who wants to fuck his own daughter.

It’s hard not to feel sorry for Henry Bolton, isn’t it? Following a series of occurrences largely outside of his control, the noxious divorce-enthusiast has achieved the unlikely feat of being unanimously declared too toxic for a party whose previous leaders have included a morose, Benson and Hedges-smoking turtle who only turns up for work every third Wednesday, and a facist Ade Edmondson lookalike who claims to have invented peas.

Bolton, of course, is rightly outraged by the gross miscarriage of justice that has caused UKIP’s NEC to expect him to take ownership of whether or not his penis ends up in a person who lacks the necessary restraint to ensure that the really bad racism stays within the party, and that only oblique, plausibly-deniable references to hating brown people make it into the public sphere. And, if we look at things dispassionately, how could he possibly have been expected to avoid the situation in which he now finds himself?

It’s a tale as old as time itself: he puts on his best Farah slacks and his smartest brownshirt, kisses his third wife goodbye, and goose steps off to his work’s festive party, cheerfully humming “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas,” and allowing himself a malignant little smile at the pleasing double meaning hidden within the lyrics of his favourite yuletide ditty.

Everything seems normal on arrival. He trades a few jokes that Bernard Manning rejected for being ‘a bit tasty’ with Godfrey Bloom, then heads over to the vol-au-vents, sipping contentedly at his second glass of white wine. Then, all of a sudden, he sets eyes on the woman who will change everything. She’s slim, blonde, less than half his age, and possessed of the hot, fiery brand of racially-motivated hatred that brings ‘Little Henry’ to the kind of urgent tumescence he last enjoyed when it was still ok to throw bananas at black footballers.

Fast forward a few days, and wife number three is well on the way to becoming ex-wife number three, as poor, biddable Henry ignores the pleas of his pre-school daughter and shacks up with the objectively abhorrent Kellyanne Conway tribute act who caused him to wander from the path of faithful devotion just a few days before the anniversary of the birth of White Jesus.

I suspect you’re probably thinking that the 54-year-old leader of a political party must bear some responsibility for his life choices, but what the hell was he supposed to do? Honour his marriage vows? Consider the feelings of his children? Not broadcast the fact that he was conkers deep in a Poundland Helga Geerhart all over Twitter like a horny, pant-spaffing member of the 2017 Hitler Youth?

None of this is reasonable. You might as well hold Bolton responsible for the fact that he thought pretending to ‘end the romantic element’ of their relationship would solve everything, as though it’s totally fine to have friends who assert that a mixed-race woman will ‘taint’ the hitherto exclusively white family she’s about to marry into, as long as you don’t shag them.

No, the blame must be laid squarely at the door of Nazi nork-model, Jo Marney, who has destroyed a marriage and a political party, along with, presumably, her own ability to ever close her eyes again without seeing Bolton’s leering, salivating face gazing lustily back at her, and his hairy, mid-fifties mantits bobbing up and down in unison for approximately ninety gag reflex-testing seconds.

I suspect that by mid-March, when the dust has settled and UKIP has finally expired in one last pant-shitting spasm of intolerance, history will judge Ms Marney as being the Eve to Bolton’s Adam, the Delilah to his Sampson. Because, if history teaches us anything, it’s that whenever anything bad happens, it’s ultimately never truly the fault of the well-off, middle-aged white man.

Michael Gove has today promised to review his half-arsed approach to his attempts to appear vaguely human, lest his frequent mishaps contribute to the increasingly common public perception of him as an oily, detestable little shit.

Following a series of unfortunate events in 2016, where he inadvertently told a sequence of increasingly outrageous barefaced lies to millions of gullible fucking simpletons, before carelessly launching a pathetically miscalculated and ultimately futile leadership bid, Gove has made another faux pas today when he unwittingly delivered a joke he’d prepared and rehearsed trivialising the experiences of rape victims.

Mr Gove later apologised for his ‘clumsy attempt at humour’, saying,

“This shit could happen to anyone, right? You write a rape joke, rehearse it in the limo on the way over, walk into the studio intending to say it out loud, and before you know it, you’re the guy who jokes about sexual assault. If anyone deserves sympathy here, it’s me.”

One of Gove’s colleagues, who did not wish to be named, called for understanding, adding,

“You might think of Michael as a revolting, unlikeable twat with all the charm of a skip full of medical waste, but by Conservative Party standards, he’s a fairly normal bloke.”

The Labour Party declined to provide a statement as they were too busy checking the historic social media output of their new MPs for similarly unpalatable comments.