Outrage as Jeremy Corbyn suspected of not having ‘LEST WE FORGET’ tattooed along the top of his cock

Jeremy Corbyn sparked fury today as it emerged that he was vanishingly unlikely to have any kind of statement supporting Our Brave Lads And Lasses indelibly marked into the north-facing portion of his old chap. 

According to an exclusive report by the Daily Express, the words ‘lest we forget’ do not appear anywhere along the leader of the opposition’s sexmeat, and he almost certainly hasn’t scratched all three verses of ‘In Flanders Fields’ into his liver-spotted torso with a kitchen knife.

Following yesterday’s Remembrance Sunday service, at which Mr Corbyn was dressed appropriately, fully poppied up and not apparently nursing a massive fucking hangover, attention turned to any other way he might conceivably have been betraying his naked contempt for our Courageous Troops.

Initial anger was directed at the flagrantly disrespectful angle of the soldier-hating commie’s head during the two minutes’ silence that traditionally follows the Prime Minister’s laying of the upside down wreath. Enraged onlookers reported seeing a disgusting two inches of available space between Mr Corbyn’s chin and chest, clearly indicating an obvious desire to back out an allotment veg-rich turd directly onto the steps of the cenotaph.

Wayne Pratt, an enthusiastic devourer of right wing diarrhoea from Ipswich, said,

“I’m fucking sick of this. It’s every year. First he wore a coat like he was some kind of 70-year-old man who needs to keep warm, then he wasn’t wearing the poppy he was definitely wearing, and now he shows up bowing his head at a perfectly normal angle like he’s thinking about defiling the corpses of servicemen. I’m definitely voting for the Brexit Party now.”

Sheila Sweals, who buys the Express for the TV guide and not the frequent outbursts of unconcealed racism, concurred,

“The cock thing was the final straw for me, to be honest,” she lied. “If he’s got nothing to hide, why doesn’t he just show us? The very fucking least the marrow-scoffing twat needs to do now is have a six-inch wide poppy leaf branded onto each arsecheek, and even then, I’d still find a way to hate him for it.”

We approached Mr Corbyn’s office for comment, but his spokesperson said they did not wish to ‘dignify the allegations with a response’.

Which is almost certainly some kind of Marxist code for, “He’s in Normandy pissing on graves.”

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.

Corbyn to take Nigel Farage tribute act on the road

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.