Man who has trouble predicting entirely predictable things somehow still alive

It has emerged today that a man who is unable to foresee the most obvious shit imaginable has somehow managed not to die, despite his prolific and unrelenting stupidity.

Rod Purley, an irredeemable twat who makes a living running the BBC into the fucking ground, has somehow managed to remain not deceased for a period spanning several decades, even though he presumably uses an electric fire to warm up his bath water.

Purley hit the headlines yesterday after booking known atrocious cunt Brandon O’Kneel to appear on one of the shows for which he has editorial control, before expressing surprise when O’Kneel said all the horrible fucking things he’s been saying for the past twenty years.

Social media erupted with condemnation of the booking, with many commentators convinced that it was grimly inevitable that a person who has predicated his entire career on being a contentious arsehole would, in fact, continue to behave like an absolute fucking prick.

Owners of functioning brains everywhere were steadfast in their insistence that exactly the thing that happened could have been predicted to happen by anyone other than the thickest of shit-thick wankers. Frank Exchange, a person possessed of normal cognitive abilities, said,

“It’s not even a tricky one. It’s like predicting the sunrise, or Boris Johnson being caught knackers-deep in a woman who isn’t his current partner. You’d have to be a fucking moron or a lying piece of shit to suggest with a straight face that you couldn’t have known that this notoriously shitty individual would belch up something objectively fucking awful on live television given even the briefest of opportunities.”

Purley, though, remained unrepentant.

“How was I supposed to know that this bucket of undiluted piss whose entire worthless existence has been characterised by crapping out dangerous and divisive opinions for the gratification of cunts would continue this long, unbroken pattern of behaviour? It’s not like it’s my actual fucking job to be aware of these things. Now, if you’ll excuse me, someone has dropped a grand piano from the top of that building, and I need to go and catch it in this plastic bucket.”

Puppies, poultry and self-immolation: an object lesson in being careful what you wish for

Imagine wanting something so badly that you’ll do anything to get it. Dishonesty, disloyalty, racism, homophobia, the steadfast promise to deliver something you know in your heart is intrinsically repugnant: nothing is off the table in your quest to lay your hands on that which is rightfully yours.

Imagine then, that you finally achieve your life’s ambition, and within a single week you’ve managed to reduce it to smouldering ruins via an unedifying combination of your own hubris, belligerence and wanton stupidity.

Sometimes, the thing you’ve always yearned for most turns out to be the thing you should never get your stumpy, aide-fannied fingers on because you’re essentially a dangerous fucking idiot who shouldn’t be trusted with anything more important than dogshit collection in your own back garden.

So it turned out to be the case for our new Prime Minister this week, whose first official week in the job was like watching an almost sentient mannequin of reconstituted offal perfect the art of being a useless dickhead in real time. By Friday, the bold, fanciful promises of the summer were splattered across the walls around him like the scene of a grisly murder at the cunt sanctuary, and the clownish arrogance that has characterised his entire existence so far had given way to dark-eyed, brooding contempt.

Even as the week began, it was clear that all was not well. Rumblings were afoot that traitorous elements within his own party were so hell bent on preventing Mr Johnson from dragging us into a place darker than Julia Hartley-Brewer’s soul to feed his own insatiable ego that they would vote with the opposition benches to scupper his nation-wrecking masterplan.

He responded as any self-respecting despotic cockend would: by threatening to remove such disruptive elements as the country’s longest serving MP, the guy who was Chancellor until six weeks ago and Winston Churchill’s actual fucking grandson from the Conservative Party if they did not fall in line. Even an idiot, though apparently not this particular idiot, could predict that this would not end favourably for Zipline Twat, and it’s beyond logical comprehension what could have possessed him to embark upon such a self-evidently self-fucking course of action.

Needless to say, it blew up in his ridiculous, latexy face, beginning with the moment Philip Lee defected to the Lib Dems in the middle of the PM’s Commons speech, providing a grateful nation with the endlessly amusing opportunity to witness the flicker of painful recognition in Bumbleshitskin’s eyes as he realised he’d fucked it before his bland, stilted bludgeoning of the very concept of oratory was even halfway complete. Like that video of the guy sliding down the middle of the escalator on the London Underground, eyes widening as he realises his taint is about to take a pummelling that will detrimentally and irreversibly affect his gait, knowing in that instant that he is utterly powerless to prevent the stance-altering impact to his terrified undercarriage, this will never not be utterly fucking hilarious.

Fast-forward to the aftermath of Johnson’s first, and frankly inevitable, Commons defeat on Tuesday night, whereupon he took the eminently sensible decision to slash his own majority to minus fucking loads by shitcanning party grandees in a fit of petulant rage like a spoilt toddler with tits. By Wednesday, he’d achieved the unenviable record of being the only Prime Minister since the Permian Era to lose their first three Commons votes, so at least he’ll make history for something.

So there he was: defeated, maligned, trapped in a maximum security facility for the terminally inept whose impenetrable walls were forged brick-by-brick from his own toxic entitlement and cemented with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of misplaced self-belief. All he had left now was family.

Thursday, then, must have gone down like a glass of unusually salty piss, as his brother announced that he was so fucking tired of his older sibling’s reckless twattery that he was quitting both the government and politics in general, and his sister urged him publicly to stop being such a monumental bellend. The day could only have ended more perfectly if the Downing Street dog had announced that shivering in a kennel full of his own turds was preferable to spending another minute under the same roof as this gelatinous hatefountain, and Stanley Johnson had called for a DNA test because he was sure that the preposterous laundry hamper in Number 10 couldn’t possibly have squirted out of his own stout little pecker.

Friday’s ‘damage control’ was as fundamentally tragic as the rest of the week’s ill-conceived wankery, as the official Conservative Party Twitter account tweeted a doctored picture of Jeremy Corbyn in a fluffy chicken suit. Far from swinging opinion back in the Tories’ favour, this intervention served only to embarrass them further, as the photographer of the original image tweeted that he hadn’t been paid for its use and subsequent alteration, and the best they could come up with for the initials ‘JFC’ was ‘totally spineless chicken’. Now, I don’t profess to be any kind of expert in the art of political manipulation, but I would posit that the very fucking least they could have done was to attempt a slogan beginning with the letters J, F and C.

Things didn’t get any better that afternoon, as journalists were delivered chicken breasts that were as dry and unappetising as a Theresa May press conference in single use plastic containers, with a leaflet implying that the galaxy brains at CCHQ were under the somewhat laughable impression that Colonel Sanders was actually a man-sized chicken.

If the unfortunate events of this week tell us anything, it’s that the massive fucking cock in this internationally humiliating clowncar of absurdity is most assuredly not the Colonel.

Adopting a puppy not a cure for being a prick, warn researchers

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.”

Farage launches ‘Ramble for Racism’ to fund new telly

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.”

Literally everything more important than sorting out Brexit clusterfuck, confirms govt

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.