Theresahead
Piggy and Sambo were on their hols in Photogenia – pointing at vegetables, laughing over their decaffucinos – blissfully unaware of the absolute carnage at Chequers. Tray had asked to borrow the place for Easter weekend, putting her weariest spiderwebbed home secretary face on. Spoke of “much Cobra-related groundwork to be done” and sighed for effect. By the time El Cerdito and entourage had flip-flopped into Arrivals at Lanzarote, Tray was already off her bonce in a kaftan, leading a conga through the orangery. Disaster struck in the early hours, though, when impromptu jousting with ride-on lawnmowers resulted in poor Spammo Grayling taking a broom handle in the neck. Emergency airlift to a private hospital. Massively embarrassing if it had got out. Seat-sniffing “Sneers” Morgan was hanging around by the pile of coats all night, but thank God no proper journalists.
Newsround
To Fleet Street’s oldest pub, the Lung and Prostate, where a small mournful crowd gathered to “spank out” the final print edition of the dear old “Denty” after 30 glorious years. So sad. What happened to our collective nostalgia for the golden age of newspapers? It seems to have fallen to undetectable levels across all media platforms. Oh those long, hot-metal days, when the news was set upside down and right to left, pubs didn’t open until half past five and everyone smoked indoors. Alas, there are few old-school hacks left to reminisce. Curse the cruel ravages of alcoholism, chronic obstructive pulmonary disorder and dementia. That gurgling ballbag Whittingdale gave a brief speech to remind everyone he was culture secretary and was, in fond tribute to the old print unions, pelted off with pickled eggs.
Hello Dully
Grim lunch with shadow chancellor Dully McDullvoice – “Oh, I never drink before autumn” – who delivered a droning lecture on the vacuous tautology of contemporary humour. What a fracking bore.
Tiddly BOSH, mes amis!
