We had not travelled twenty leagues on the RMS Brexcusitania when Captain Johnson slipped into a coma after a freak getting dressed accident involving clothes. The ensuing mouth-to-sloth CPR went on so long, boatswain
Nicholas Soames got fed up and shot the ship’s cat Brandon Lewis. This would not have been notable, had the delingpole situation on board not spiralled out of control, the malignant pests multiplying like bacteria in the absence of apex predator Lewis.
They soon began carrying away our food: quarter-master Therese Coffey’s victuals of peri-peri slow worms, mallard foie-gras, pickled thrush eggs and wine gums were all despatched, as were my Lilliputian sheep, their bones found later in Jacob Rees-Mogg’s giant cobweb hammock,
picked clean from the flesh. Bareknuckle boxing champion and evangelical life-coach Steve ‘three socks’ Baker suggested we acquire more provisions by commandeering a foreign ship, which certain cowards like Geoffrey Cox balked at; Luckily, no win no fee Attorney General
Suella Braverman, having resisted attempts by head-hunters to lure her into a career mowing the grass around remote phone boxes, was still aboard and she produced a definitive piece of paper which stated that such an action would actually strengthen international law and would be
the fault of the other vessel for not being British. That her paper appeared to be the warranty for a Hotpoint washer-dryer, I chose not to say, lest I upset a vessel full of supperless Tories. We soon sighted a European super-trawler, its hull full of English fish
shouting ‘Cor, get orf us guvnor’, ‘I’m a cockney ‘addock’ and ‘Honestly, you wouldn’t recognise Bethnal Green no more’, but before we could seize her we were wracked, on what we first thought were rocks, but later discovered was the border in the Irish sea. Washing up in
Fishguard, we were detained by local Welsh women in red dresses with stovepipe hats who took us for devils. We explained we were but humble Tories and they replied ‘that’s what we said bach’ and put us on a show trial, sentencing us to death by Bassey. Thankfully local
leisure suite owner Steven ‘Crabbmeister’ Crabb, in naught but a velvet dressing gown and gold medallion, with several Edwina Curry lookalikes on his arms, intervened and reckoned for our freedom, on the proviso we destroy the Welsh farming sector by Christmas. Thus freed,
I completed several media appearances on the BBC and Sky, showing my integrity to many persons of quality and others by failing to answer a single question, diverting the attention always, and telling outright lies, whilst all the time oozing charisma (the silver trail I leave
behind me). I stayed but a week with my wife, for my insatiable desire not to listen to her bend my earholes about the urgent jobs around the house would suffer me to continue no longer. With tears on no sides, I took leave, on board the HMS Mephistopheles, bound for Hull.
With thanks to @Michelangela75 for locating this superb picture from the archive.
’Twas the night before Sunak, when all thro' the House,
Not a Gullis was stirring, not even a mouse;
Order papers were hung by the Speaker’s own chair,
In hopes that Asylum Bill soon would be there;
🧵
The Tories were huddled, immersed in their threads,
While visions of boat people danc'd in their heads,
Suella in her 'kerchief, Jenrick with his stab,
Had just settled our brains for debating crap –
When out on the Green there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bench to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.
Moon shone on the Press, in Rwanda’s shit show,
Gave lustre of day on objections below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
7am - Breakfast of Sugar Puffs made with a can of Monster
7.05am - Count and remove the nine bagged dogshits local youths posted through my letterbox last night
7.06am - Convene Star Chamber of Rayleigh and Wickford Neighbourhood Watch
🧵👇
8.15am - Star Chamber conclude that plan to deport local delinquents to Leyton is full of holes
9am - Open door and step in the pork pie I left on my doorstep for the unknown soldier last night
9.05am - change my Bertulli elevator heel shoes for pair of combat boots
9.10am - Climb into my ice white Range Rover Evoque with appearance package, put the Dambusters March on the integrated Bose sound system, and head for Westminster
11am - Arrive Whitehall in 1hr 50. Only three road rages, two Ginsters stops and a dislodged cyclist. A good run
Has spent the last decade trying to infiltrate and restructure the RNLI so that they will only launch for people with 98% Saxon DNA.
He makes a supplementary income from an illegal puppy farm.
Robert Jenrick
Retrained as a painter and decorator, specialising in making childcare facilities for vulnerable youngsters as foreboding as possible.
Jacob Rees-Mogg
Died in a freak Tridentine Mass accident when one of the black silage polybags of gold florins he insisted his hedge fund dividends were paid out in was struck by an incense thurible and landed on his head.
It has been a decade since the Conservative Party imploded at the 2024 general election (now you feel old), and you'll never guess what Boris's babies have been up to since the franchise ended!
Scroll down to find out...
Therese Coffey
Since losing her seat, the former environment secretary has been keeping busy with her pop-up abattoir, roaming provincial city-centres armed with nothing but a bolt gun and an packed trailer of distressed livestock.
Jonathan Gullis
After a stint as Kidsgrove’s lollypop man (sacked for bellowing at dawdling children), the ex-Stoke North MP found his true vocation in pest control. “I can read a cockroach” he said after winning Rentokil’s coveted July 2015 Exterminator of The Month award.