Arseholes will continue to be arseholes even after the adoption of a small dog, according to research published today.

A University of Slough paper states that traits such as disloyalty, misogyny and having hair that looks like you’ve just been fucked in a privet hedge by a 300 lb gorilla remain entirely unaffected by pet ownership of any description. The news came as quite the surprise to journalists from the BBC and Sky News, who were apparently labouring under the misapprehension that the presence of a Jack Russell terrier was of greater significance than an individual’s long and unbroken history of dishonesty, racism and arse-gaping incompetence.

The head of the research team, Di Tori, said,

“We’ve looked at this very closely and our findings are conclusive. Even one of the nice breeds that doesn’t look like a wire brush with legs would be incapable of preventing a notoriously self-serving cunt from being all self-servingly cunty. We even tried it with a Labrador and everything, but the effects on characteristics such as toxic white male entitlement, not knowing how many children you have and dressing like a laundry hamper overtrusted a fart in your immediate vicinity were negligible.”

Her colleague, Frank Exchange, went on to say,

“This wide-ranging investigation has left us in no doubt that the addition of a dog to a household inhabited by the kind of abhorrent cockwipe who directs hate at marginalised people for cash is vanishingly unlikely to turn them into an acceptable human being. Furthermore, we have definitively shown that the prominence given to these pet-related shenanigans by national broadcasters demonstrates a dereliction of duty akin to the time that moon-faced pig-fondler recklessly spunked the country’s social and economic future all over the eager, scarlet faces of Sun-reading xenophobes in an unsuccessful attempt to quell the bickering that had been raging for forty years in his atrocious party of minority-hating bastards.”

Rod Purley, a negligent wanker with a senior position at Broadcasting House, responded to this aspect of the findings with scepticism, saying,

“I think we all need to take this with a pinch of salt. I find it difficult to accept that, on a day where the very fabric of our country is being threatened by a megalomaniacal mound of straw-topped shit hell bent on dry-bumming the United Kingdom into a bloody, jizz-splattered pulp, the arrival of this would-be dictator’s canine companion shouldn’t command an absurdly substantial quantity of our airtime. I mean, look at his wickle face.”

Ms Tori, however, remained in no doubt as to the veracity of the paper.

“Look, this is fucking science, you twats,” she said. “You don’t get to dispute months of rigorous, peer-reviewed research based solely on your inexplicable desire to give Emperor Gelatine a reacharound live on News At fucking Ten.”

Attendees of Boston’s first annual Straight Pride parade have declared the event a resounding success, as up to three dozen rat-bearded, sexually inactive basement-dwellers took to the streets to exercise their constitutional right to parade their toxic white masculinity in front of a bemused and much larger crowd of non-dickheads.

The tragic cockfest unfolded before a heavy police presence, and featured some lamentable tosser with his mobile phone in a belt holster, and that bloated Nazi cunt off YouTube. Not a single woman was in attendance, however, with ladies having been excluded from participating on the grounds that ‘they’re all prick-teasing bitches’.

Drab, colourless floats and thinly disguised racism were the official themes of this year’s event, and were so well-received by the assembled pasty-faced cry-wankers that organisers are considering making this a permanent fixture in future years.

Harold, a 36-year-old sex pest who wished to be known as ‘truthspeaker365’, said,

“My mom told me this would be a pointless mound of shit, and that my time would be better spent looking for a job so I can get my own apartment, but I’m glad I came. The fags get everything these days: parades, marriage, sex…lots of sex, and it’s about time we made a return to the days where twelve of us could kick the shit out of one guy for looking a bit mincey, without fear of persecution.”

When asked to respond to allegations that this was little more than a rally for white supremacists who were cynically using sexuality as a vehicle for their twatty, poptart-fuelled hate, Paul, a prolific masturbator with a misspelled tattoo and actual full-sized tits, insisted,

“It’s not about race, and those who say those things are simply proving our point. Just because I’m wearing a MAGA hat, waving a ‘Trump 2020’ flag and standing on a float bearing the slogan ‘BUILD THAT WALL’, doesn’t mean I’m a raging fascist. The guy who works at my local 7-11 is some kind of ethnic, and I don’t even ask to be served by someone else. At least not when it’s busy.”

Many of those lining the route, however, were less than enamoured with the proceedings. Jane, a woman with self-respect and a functioning brain, observed,

“Look at the sad bastards. It’s like someone put racial intolerance, sexual frustration and petty jealousy in a big fucking blender with some improbably dense shit, and moulded the resulting woman-repelling sludge into these cunts. They’re never getting laid, ever. I wish they’d fuck off back to their sticky-carpeted bedsits so I can pick up my dry cleaning in under two hours without the stench of B.O. burning my fucking nostrils.”

The incel brigade remained stubbornly undeterred by this intervention, labelling Jane a ‘stupid fucking whore’, before heading home to rest up their overactive rage glands in time for Black History Month.

People with dodgy hips who take five different types of tablets a day renewed calls this afternoon for the UK to commit to a course of action that will exacerbate near-crippling levels of NHS staff shortages and lead to a potential scarcity of vital medical supplies.

The purple-nosed attendees of the Brexit Party rally in Fylde were adamant that a few preventable deaths in hospital corridors is a price worth paying for ideological purity, non-burgundy travel documents and less choice at the deli counter. The very idea of Jeremy Corbyn and Theresa May plotting to deliver a significantly harder Brexit than anyone advocated during the referendum campaign was enough to send many of the Daily Mail wielding bastards into fits of frothy-mouthed rage at how soft this hard Brexit would actually be.

“Look, when the Leave campaigners said in 2016 that no one was talking about leaving the single market, they were speaking figuratively,” said Reg, a retired dickhead from Blackpool. 

“What they actually meant was that we should sever all ties with these unelected bureaucrats before we have to waste time with any more elections, and worry about running out of fucking insulin after that.”

Wayne, a racist taxi driver with angina and a carefully curated set of opinions gathered exclusively from the pages of the Daily Express and UKIP election leaflets, agreed.

“This isn’t about whether my Aunt Brenda can get hold of clean tubes for her catheter, it’s about democracy. We knew exactly what we were voting for, even though the ballot paper never mentioned no deal and Liam Fox said it would be piss easy to get a deal, all 17 million of us were definitely voting to be worse off and possibly dead.”

When asked whether they were worried about the inevitable staff shortages that would occur in the event of a no deal Brexit, the response was emphatic.

“We didn’t have German doctors during the war, did we?” shouted Denise, a detestable busybody from Lytham St Anne’s who was born in 1956, “and we seemed to get through that ok.”

I pointed out that a great many people had actually died during the Second World War, and that the spirit of friendship and cooperation with our European allies since then had been instrumental in repairing a fractured continent after decades of violence and upheaval, in response to which Denise muttered something about me being a ‘traitorous cunt’, before heading off to ask a South East Asian couple in a food van what the fuck they thought they were doing there.

One of the speakers at the event was the partially reanimated cadaver of former Conservative MP and open casket of horrors, Anne Widdecombe. I asked Ms Widdecombe for a comment on the suggestion that her party’s approach to this matter was rooted in bigotry rather than the practicalities of ensuring the issue is resolved in a manner that ensures the UK remains prosperous, to which she replied,

“Fuck off, you mincing cock-juggler. I don’t speak to poofs.”

Latex-faced Hitler enthusiast, Nigel Farage, announced exciting plans yesterday to march from Sunderland to another bit of Sunderland before getting in a bus full of other horrendous cunts and driving somewhere else.

This ambitious project is designed to raise awareness of the fact that some traitorous elements of the British population are still betraying the Will Of The People by not spending their every waking moment doing a racism, and also to fund that new 60-inch, ultra HD, 5.1 surround sound telly Mr Farage has been after that he might fully enjoy the DVD he just ordered off Amazon, in which Lee Hurst yells the word ‘snowflake’ at people who aren’t malicious fucking pricks for 93 uninterrupted minutes.

For the very reasonable sum of just £50, gullible racist bastards will have the opportunity to walk on roads they can walk on for free literally any fucking time they want to, carrying upside down Union Flags and singing Hitler Youth songs while normal people call them arseholes and empty jars of piss on their heads.

Fascist ham-mannequin, Farage, was in ebullient mood at the event’s launch, saying,

“Honestly, you should fucking see it. The colours are pin-sharp, and you can actually feel the subwoofer right in your fucking taint. I’m off to Curry’s as soon as enough of the dopey little shits have coughed up.”

When pressed for a comment on the thinking behind the stupid fucking walk thing he’d semi-organised, his mood changed.

“Did you know that in Britain today, more than 23% of newspaper columns don’t make any attempt to direct hate at Muslamics, coloureds, or even poofs? That’s not including the Mail and the Express, of course, but it’s still a shocking statistic. We will start walking, and we won’t stop until every single column inch is like one of the sweaty, feverish dreams in which I sticky up my jammy bottoms visualising a racially pure United Kingdom. I say ‘we’, I’m probably just gonna do the first and the last twenty minutes.”

Members of the Brexit Party in attendance at the launch were adamant that they weren’t being taken for absolute fucking mugs by the bastard offspring of the KKK and some tweed. Wayne, a hateful dickhead from Stevenage, said,

“He obviously has to fuck off in his private plane after a quarter of an hour because he needs to get back to London and fight the establishment. They’re trying to silence him by just letting him have his own radio show, a couple of newspaper columns and sixteen hours a week of unchecked ranting on BBC News. He can’t possibly be with us for the whole walk, so it’s important he has our support. And also our money.”

I put it to Mr Farage that he might be wasting his time on something that’s likely only to make most people regard him as an even bigger twat than they already did, but his response was unequivocal.

“It’s got Freeview and Freesat built in.”

Piers stirred into some misty semblance of consciousness, disorientated, confused. Where was he? He could feel the ferociousness of an angry sun on his scaly, reptilian back, the hot sand burning beneath his detestable, porcine face.

He remembered.

He couldn’t say how long he’d been on the island, but if he was back home, he’d have known that it had been at least a month since the end of the last of the week-long parties that had erupted following the national outpouring of joy when it was announced that he was missing, presumed dead. 

He had survived for what seemed like an eternity on coconut milk, seaweed and the bits of Donald Trump’s shit that were stuck between his teeth. But he was tired now. So tired. It was time to stop fighting.

But wait. Were those voices he could hear?

He strained to pull himself into a sitting position, the weight of his inexplicably bulbous and yet somehow still loathsomely self-satisfied head proving quite the challenge for his now emaciated skeleton.

As he was finally able to look up, he gazed into the tanned face of a man around his own age, but infinitely more handsome in spite of the weathering inflicted by a life at sea. The man did not recognise him, as the weeks on the island had taken their toll, but if he had, he would surely have headed back to his ship without a second’s hesitation rather than be the person responsible for rescuing the world’s most reviled human being.

With a kindly smile, the man held out a white paper bag, which Piers snatched from him as though it was his right, and not an act of kindness from a benevolent stranger. The bag was warm, and transparent in places from the grease covering the bounty that lay within. He noticed the unmistakable blue logo and his mouth watered. 

He tried to speak, but his voice was weak from dehydration and shouting misogynistic abuse at the mermaid he’d hallucinated. He beckoned the man to come closer. 

The ship’s captain obliged and got to his knees next to this wretched creature he had stumbled upon with his unfortunate crew. He leant forward, slowly, and as he did, he heard that uniquely foul and instantly repulsive voice as it whispered despicably into his ear,

“It’s not vegan, is it?”

The government today confirmed to concerned UK citizens that not shitting up almost every aspect of their already miserable lives sits at the very fucking bottom of the list of Conservative priorities, below ‘arsefisting the NHS to death’ and ‘inflammatory xenophobic posturing’.

Following suggestions before Christmas that the parliamentary break should be cancelled or curtailed that they might actually take steps to defuse the increasingly fucking volatile shitgrenade of Brexit, the laughter of many MPs was so vigorous that their bellies shook like bowls full of jelly in the manner of cunty, self-centred Santa Clauses. So ridiculous was the idea that they might actually make some small sacrifice to prevent the entire nation going to fucking shit, that at least three on the Tory benches threw up their roast pheasant in impromptu fits of uncontrolled mirth.

In a further bid to underline the complete absence of fucks given about the thing that promises to render cardboard our most valuable national commodity, Home Secretary Sajid Javid cut short his family holiday today to deal with a ‘major incident’ in which a handful of people displaced by the bombs we drop all over the fucking Middle East made an unsuccessful attempt to cross the channel in quite a small boat.

A spokesperson for the Prime Minister’s office said,

“Look, this is really fucking simple. Although Brexit will adversely affect hundreds of millions of people across the continent, the racist little cunts who keep us in power seem to really want it to happen. Of course Sajid flying home is completely fucking unnecessary, but it panders to those same jingoistic arseholes who’ll ultimately give us the backing we need to continue buttfucking the economy into oblivion for personal gain. Also, when it’s all over, Jacob has offered to take us all out somewhere not as nice as the Ritz but better than a Harvester with his winnings.”

We approached former UKIP leader and current Hitlery jizzpipe, Nigel Farage, for a comment, but he was said to be unavailable, and was last seen heading towards the White Cliffs of Dover banging a yard of metal pipe into his palm and muttering something about there not being any black in the Union Jack.

With Mr Javid set to touch down in the UK in the next few hours, we can at least rest assured that these penniless, non-white immigrants turning up on our shores will be immediately and unceremoniously returned from whence they came, just like his father wasn’t.

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.