Category: Satire

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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.

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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.

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A Grimsby husband, who last week told his wife he was leaving her but who is now soiling himself at the prospect of living alone in a sticky-carpeted bedsit, has proposed establishing a ‘temporary sexual union’ to enable him to stay put without having to accept responsibility for having taken a massive metaphorical shit in his own bed.

“I’ve been thinking about leaving her for ages,” said self-indulgent prick, Graham Britton. “I’m not allowed to roll up shitfaced at three in the morning, she moans like fuck if I stare at her sister’s tits, and I have to spend the weekend at Ikea instead of twatting about with my mates.

“I thought I’d just have to look at another woman and she’d drop to her knees and start sucking, but it turns out they all require more out of a relationship than regular 5ml quantities of my cock custard. Fucking bitches.”

Under the suggested terms of the deal, Britton, 34, would remain in the family home for up to a further two years, and would be entitled to avail himself of all the sexual benefits associated with a normal marriage. This would allow him the opportunity to make alternative arrangements with other female humans so that he needn’t be without a vagina into which to ejaculate for any significant period of time.

“He can go shove a fucking cactus up his pisshole,” said Britton’s wife, Jean-Claudette. “And not one of those little cactuses you can buy for three quid in Sainsbury’s; one of the big, fuckoff ones that John Wayne used to hide behind. If he thinks I’m just gonna roll over and take his shit after he’s been telling everyone what a bitch I am, he can sodding well think again. The semi-potent, shrivelly-cocked twat.”

Despite this minor setback, Britton has insisted that negotiations pertaining to his self-centred and ridiculously optimistic proposal are progressing ‘incredibly well’.