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.