Boris's Post Brexit Utopia In Full

Crikey. 

Yes. Well. Who’d have thought? Really.

Our great nation has spoken. And this is indeed a historic moment in its history. 

All the evils of being shackled by an unelected elite will now end. 

I've hated unelected elites since way back.

Everybody’s doorstepping me about what I plan to do. And quite right. That’s what we’re all wondering now. But whatever it is I plan to do will be better for our great nation, you can be sure of that. I’m a committed Europhile from way back. So that’s not going to change. Having defeated the shackles of the EU unelected elite we are free to do whatever we like, including staying in the EU with all its economic and cultural benefits. It’s a win/win situation. 

That bloke Junker, what is he like? Trying to tell us to fuck off and as fast as possible. Doesn’t he know how important we are? Doesn’t he know the EU needs us more that we need it? These people, really. He clearly did not have a contingency plan for this eventuality. 

Oh, that poster. Well, yes, I did approve it, yes. But what you have to understand is it was an election. Things get said. I’m not responsible for that.

What needs to happen now is we keep cool heads. There’s no point in all this argy bargy. Our great nation has spoken and now we must take our time about getting on with it. No sense in rushing. There’s a test match on for one thing.

I’d like to pay especial tribute to David Cameron. I may have given the impression somewhere along the line that I disagreed with him on this issue, but it now seems we were in perfect agreement all the time. We both love the United Kingdom, we both love the European Union, and we both want to be Prime Minister.

Why Would Anyone Want To Join Muirfield?

In case you've never heard of it Muirfield is a golf club on the coast a little to the right of Edinburgh. It's not just any golf club, though. It has on occasion hosted the Open Championship so it's just possible you have heard of it. And this week it's been in the news, not for its golf but  because its all male membership have voted to continue as an all male membership.

While I can see why an angry PC mob is storming the Starter's Box with cudgels in response to this outrageous sexism, perhaps it would be wiser to reflect a moment.

There's a prevalent notion that everyone should have everything. Any obstacle to that ideal must be demolished in the name of justice and equality. Society thrives on this notion. It's what makes us 'aspire' to better things, a wanky term for greed and envy. It makes us work harder, pay more tax and buy more stuff. But the older I get the more I know that everything isn't for everyone, nor should it be.

Now, don't me wrong, I have nothing against golf clubs. Well, actually I do. I don't much like the way they ring-fence huge swathes of beautiful countryside for the exclusive use of a few pampered and overly competitive show offs. I don't mind the sport itself. If anyone wants to hit a ball with an iron bar around a few miles of coast I suppose it stops them being a burden on society. But there's no excuse for the silly trousers or those milk float Noddy cars they chug along in. Surely the point of a sport is exercise?

But above all is their attitude. While they strut the greens in daft attire with their little clique of fellow club members these modern day squires regard the rest of humanity as nothing better than local peasantry. I speak as a neighbour of a golf club, not one as grand as the lofty Muirfield you understand, but golfers regard themselves as visiting royalty even in the humblest clubhouse. This gives them license to be as rude and overbearing as they wish. They can shout, swear, bark bad tempered orders at any poor sod who inadvertently wanders into their line of vision. They can clamber into gardens to retrieve their ball from the cold frame or green house it smashed without so much as a murmured apology. They think shouting "Fore" allows them to fire homicidal strokes at picnickers within a five mile radius.

And all of this brings me to the point of this post. Much as I dislike them I can see that golf clubs serve a useful function in society. They keep these petty minded little Napoleons away from the rest of us, in much the same way a prison protects us from criminals. They can all gather there and annoy each other with their nit picking rule obsessed anally retentive anecdotes. They can compare their Pringle socks and fluffy club covers. They can swagger around the clubhouse bar in ludicrous knitwear trying to be the biggest wanker. We, thankfully, don't have to see them.

Why would anyone think golfers are sexist?

And what goes for most clubs goes double for a place like Muirfield, where you need six signed affadavits, a declaration from your Bank Manager and an introductory letter from a member of the royal family to even get considered for membership. These bastions of snobbery are nothing to do with a jolly game of golf so much as impressing clients and getting one up on the neighbours. Who in their right mind would want to spend a Sunday afternoon dressed like Terry-Thomas and surrounded by Hooray Henries unless it was in the name of social climbing or the chance of getting within grovelling distance of Tiger Woods at some future Open Championship?

So, if that sounds like your idea of heaven, by all means get the PC army up in arms in pursuit of your membership to Muirfield. Although, personally, you might be better off taking a long hard look at yourself.  You can play golf anywhere. It was originally played over sand dunes with sticks and rocks,  not a Tony Jacklin golf cart or Titleist ball in sight.

Sounds more fun to me, frankly.

Political Diary Guest Post: Jess Phillips MP

So, how it all started was, me and my mate Denise - that's Denise over there in the purple boob tube - Hi Denise! Been to Top Shop? Really suits you, luv! - anyway, where was I? There was me and Denise and these blokes from Exeter - well, they said they was from Exeter but they didn't sound like it to me - anyway we're all up the Dog an' Duck and it was Happy Hour an' we're all gettin' merry, as you do, an' my mate Denise says how about doin' somethin' for a laff. An' I said wot. An' she said put your bra on back to front. But I can't really do that cos I get terrible back ache without a bra on so one of the blokes from Exeter - Trevor, I think he said his name was - or was it Kevin? He reminded me of my sister's boyfriend Kevin. Not her current boyfriend, her last but one boyfriend. Dead ringer, he was. Anyway this bloke Kevin says Hey I got a great idea why not put your name down for the election? An' I said wot election? An' e' said the General Election. An' at first I have to say I was not at all keen cos I don't really like politics, an' I said it's dead boring you must be jokin'. An' he said, no you'll have a great time, it's all mouthin' off and you don't need no qualifications nor nothin'. An' Happy Hour was just endin' and we had half hour before Donnegans opened so we went round and done it. I'm mad, I am.

So, it's a mad place this Westminster. It's got all these like weird customs and stuff. There's this bloke in a long gown called a Speaker, an you have to watch he don't tell you off cos he can send you out of the chamber if you like piss him off too much. And there's all these really petty rules. Like you're apparently not supposed to phone your mates during debates or put your feet on the bench in front which I didn't realise so that was dead embarrassing. It's kind of like being back at school, but you are allowed to shout and make animal noises, which I quite like. Just like bein' in the home stand on cup final day. So that's helped me feel at home. An' I thought it was gonna be all stuffy and lots of posh old blokes, and it's true there are a lot of them but there's lots of cool people an' all an' we have a good laugh sometimes.

The best thing about being an MP is doin' interviews on the telly. You get all your make up done for you and sometimes they even have this thing called Hospitality an' that means free booze in this place called the Green Room an' there's loads of dead interesting stars and celebrities there an all. It's like Happy Hour at the Dog an Duck, but with important people.  I love it, me.  Sometimes by the time I get on I've forgotten what it was I was gonna say.

Anyhow there's this one time in the week that's not dead boring and that's Prime Minister's Questions. It's when David Cameron has to get up and answer all these questions, which sounds dead boring, but it's not because he's really clever and doesn't bother answering the questions he just says something funny about Jeremy Corbyn or the SNP. We all get a good laugh at that, except it does get a bit boring when Jeremy Corbyn gets up cos he keeps losing the place and forgetting his lines and people heckle him a lot which isn't nice to see. Me mate, Yvette, she says I really shouldn't join in with the heckling and I suppose she's right but I just want him to sit down and let David Cameron get up an say somethin funny again. I like a good laugh, me.

So last week I got the chance to get up and ask David Cameron a question. Yeah. Me! You'da been dead proud if you'd seen me. I stood up and everybody went really quiet and I was dead nervous and wanted to sit down again but my mate Yvette had wrote the question for me on the back of one of her old Benson & Hedges packets so I just let rip. It was about keeping womens refuges open. I'm not really much interested in politics as such, but that is one subject close to me heart cos most of me mates would have nowhere to live if they closed the refuges. So I remembered what Yvette said about 'once more with feeling', and I put a dead emotional "Please, please, pleeeease" on the end of me question. It was dead moving and everybody seemed to really love it.
Course it won't make any difference but I might get asked back to do Question Time off the back of it.

All Hail Tory McToryface, Scotland's new Leader*.

Thank you, Friends.

Today is truly an historic moment. And I don't just throw that word around the way the vile nationalists do when they sweep the board and take more votes than anyone ever has in Scotland.  No, I use it in the good, British way. The way that stands for the Union.

Union. That's a great word isn't it? (Unless of course it refers to gangs of uppity subversives trying to undermine our democracy.) No, I see Union in the good, British sense of taking your taxes and resources in return for wise rule. For centuries Scotland has seen the glorious benefits of being managed by another country. Benefits such as the Highland Clearances, the Poll Tax and Margaret Thatcher. These are the glory days I want to restore as Leader*.

Because this moment is truly historic. Not historic in the sense of having anything to do with national pride, but the good British sense of knowing one's place in the Empire and sticking to it. The Nationalists will have you believe that to be Scottish you have to love Scotland. But I say, No. To be a true lover of Scotland you have to love Westminster. Only then can you see how weak and fragile is this precious thing called Scotland, how poor and useless and needy. Scotland needs my strength, and I will not let the vile Nationalists poison it with any more of their positivity. Scotland cannot survive without the generosity of our imperial masters in Westminster, and as Leader* I will do all in my power to see that never ends.

Scotland is a wonderful country. And not just for holidays or shooting parties or even investment opportunities. No, I mean in the good British way of being the northernmost bit nobody every mentions or thinks about until an election is looming. That's a tradition to be proud of and on this historic day I vow to keep it alive.

*Leader of the Opposition

Viceroy Muddle's Christmas Er Um Message

Yuletide Greetings, North British plebs.

Not to be outdone by her royal niceness, Queen Nicky of the Nats, or The First Minister as she insists on being called, I'm delivering my own Christmas message to the People of Scotland. (I hope you appreciate my use of that word, by the way, given that it's a notion my master despises with every fibre of his being. And he's not too keen on the word 'Scotland' either.)

So here we are at the end of another year, and what a year it's been. Conservatives up and down the land celebrated my triumphant return in the May General Election, gloriously humiliating the Nats in what turned out to be a miserable night for them, despite winning 56 seats.  I had no sooner celebrated my victory than I found myself summoned to Downing Street (or 'the opium den' as I like to call it) for a friendly chat with our Beloved Leader.

He was as cordial as ever.

Eating ice cream and visiting Biggar are only two of my onerous
official duties.

"Don't get up," he said as he breezed in.
"But my knees are starting to ache," I said.
The sound of his laughter did alleviate my suffering a little, however.
"Not to beat around the bush, I've got a job for you," he said, with his customary not beating around the bush. What a marvellous, decisive leader he is in every way. "The Coalition's up the spout now we have a majority. Do you realise what that means?"
"I don't have to curtsey to Nick Clegg any more..?"
He smiled sardonically and came out from behind his desk. "My dear Muddle..."
"It's Mun-dell..."
"Whatever." He grabbed my lapels and gave me an affectionate shake. "You won't have to curtsey to any of those Lie Bombs ever again."
"Er..it's pronounced LibDems, I think..."
"Let the historians worry about what to call them. They're finished. It's us now, only us. Nothing will ever stand in our way again. What I need to know, Muddle, is are you with us?"
Too choked to speak, largely because his hands were gripping my throat but also because of the emotion of the moment, I nodded my assent.

Here's me being especially masterful during Scottish
Questions, although I do need some help from my cabinet
colleagues to come up with the answers.

"Marvellous. Up you get then. I want you to take over at the Scottish Office now Fatty Carbunkle's out in the cold. Think you can handle it?"
"Er..um..."
"Good, well that's that sorted then."
"It's just..."
"What? Oh, don't worry, there's nothing to it. Stir the shit, keep us up to date on what Sturgeon's lot are up to and spout the party line at every opportunity. Oh, and for God's sake do a better job of leaking than Fatty did."
"I'll do my best, Sir."
"Good man. Now piss off, I've got real ministers to see."

So, thus anointed, I found myself with the onerous responsibility of keeping an eye on Scotland.  Luckily I had toiled under Alistair in the previous administration so I was no stranger to the role, but I hope to bring some of my own special effervescence to the job in the years ahead. Prepare to be..er, um...amazed.

After McGonogall: The Forth Road Bridge Disaster

Twas in the year of two thousand and fifteen

Came about an event never foreseen*

The pride of engineering that spanned the Forth

(I'm not referring to the one built a century earlier for trains, of courth)

Came under the eye of a structural engineer

Who spotted a crack, and murmured "What have we here?"

Alas! To the not inconsiderable inconvenience of all in Fife

This spelt disaster - worse than loss of life

For this well beloved thoroughfare must needs be closed down

And all those hapless commuters find some other way to Edinburgh town.

In the corridors of Holyrood much wailing could be heard

For Kez, and Ruth and Willie thought this circumstance absurd

"We must have an enquiry!" their cries caused such a din

And the honest folk phoned Kaye Adams to voice their chagrin

But luckily for them old Eck had seen this from afar

And commissioned a second Forth Road Bridge for folks to drive their car

So the moral of the story is simple but no less true

Don't stick your bridge together with dodgy superglue.

Parts of the Forth Road Bridge have been missing for years.

*Turns out it was foreseen but largely ignored by Scottish Labour.

Carmichael, the Pride of The Liberal Democrats

LibDem's sole Scottish MP Alistair Campbell banged to rights

Poor Alistair. 

It's come to something when a politician - a cabinet minister, no less - can't lie through his teeth to smear the opposition without getting his degrading comeuppance in the Court of Session.

What's the matter with these witch-hunting closet nationalists posing as constituents? Don't they know that politics is the Lying Game? It goes with the territory. You only have to look at Tony Blair and Nick Clegg to see how far it can advance a political career. No, Michael White and Sir Malcolm Bruce got it dead right: it's sheer vindictive lunacy to get all prissy about their MP's lack of moral fibre at this late stage of the game. 

And didn't he do the Right Thing, owning up once the election was over? Didn't he forfeit a hefty severance package in lieu of resignation? What more did these people want, blood? There's just no satisfying some people.

It's got to be an evil nat plot. 'A show trial' Tavish called it, and my God he's right.

But that's the nats for you. They come down to Westminster, all priggish and superior, with their principles and work ethic. Upsetting the cosy camaraderie and time honoured traditions, clapping instead of grunting, keeping their election promises. They let the side down. Politics isn't meant to be like that. A cabinet minister should be excused for inventing a leaked memo if it prevented even one of those filthy interlopers from winning a seat. Not just excused, hell he should be showered with honours and elevated to the Peerage. Such a selfless act of unswerving dastardliness is rarely seen in peacetime. 

But is the nation grateful? Sadly, no.