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.”

“We demand the thing that will irrevocably fuck our health service,” say people with complex medical needs

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.”