The Story So Far: Brexit is up the spout (hooray!), Donald Drumpf is jailing anyone who looks a bit foreign and space lizards are trying to take over the world. However, thankfully The World Cup is there to distract everyone, and so far The England have managed to make it through their first few stages.
Now read on…
The England and The Sweden faced each across the mighty battlefield which was the football pitch.
The ref stepped between the team captains.
“Right, I want a nice clean game,” he said. “No chewing of the bollocks, no hoofing up the arse, and if you’re going to dive make sure it looks like something out of the Bolshoi, capisce?”
In the wings Russian Premier Pootin chuckled manically to himself as he held the big plunger linked up some curly wires.
“Those poor, stupid, ignorant fools,” he cackled. “Little do they realise that I have wired up ALL THEIR TESTICLES to this crafty explosive box. Now, the bloody English won’t get a whiff of the semi-finals, and that’ll teach Theresa Green (the current UK Prime Minister for those new to the story – blimey, why am I speaking to myself in parentheses? Anyway, hey ho, on with the plot) to call me a pointy eared twat!”
The whistle blew. Pootin slammed down the plunger. In the distance there was a vague sound of an explosion.
“Master, master,” huffed Eddy von Meddy, Pootin’s lackey, as he staggered up to him. “Tragic news! Someone’s blown up the Russian team!”
“Oh, yes,” muttered Pootin, quickly throwing down the plunger. “That’s terrible. Erm… probably a CIA plot. Anyway, let’s go and shut off the Ukraine’s gas supply for a laugh.”
With that, Pootin turned tail and legged it.
“Right, David Mavis, you bastard!” yelled Theresa Green, jabbing a finger at the cowering Secretary of State for Exiting the European Union. “I’m the Daddy now! Next time I’ll fackin’ KILL YA!”
“You won’t get away with this, Green,” hissed Mavis from behind the chair. “I’ll… I’ll quit, I will! I’ll quit and tell everyone you smell of poo and tramp’s wee and then everyone will hate you and I’ll be free to follow my dream to be prima ballerina.”
“We’re having a soft Brexit, and if you don’t fackin’ like it we’ll sort this out in the House of Commons!” yelled Green. “You, me, and these fackers!” She held up both fists.
“I hate you!” cried Mavis. “I wish I was adopted! You’re not my real Prime Minister! They would let me have Brexit MY WAY!”
Crying tears of misery and shame, David Mavis ran out of the PM’s office, flouncing like a girl.
“You poor fool,” chuckled Green to herself as she dropped the cockney accent. “You have no idea what me and my space lizard chums have in store for you. Evil laugh.”
“Wah!” cried the US President, Donald Drumpf, as James Motty, the Secretary of Defence, tried to fit the wriggling President into his romper suit. “How’s the Space Force coming along? Wah!”
“Just great, your Orangeness,” said Motty. “I believe Chewbacca’s signed up. Or something. Anyway, have you come up your choice for the new member of the Supreme Court. Remember, we need someone bi-partisan, who has a history of sound judgement and –“
“I want Brett Carbonara!” cried Drumpf. “He hates abortions and freedom of speech and the environment and workers rights! He’s just the kind of free-thinking not-at-all-fascist we want on our side! Wah!”
Motty sighed. “You know he strangled a hippy once?”
“KILL ALL HIPPIES!” cried Drumpf, and immediately tweeted that he once shat on a duckling.
“They can’t do this to you, by crikey by Jove by golly gosh and other such top stuffy English phrases for right old toffs!” blubbered the Home Office Secretary, Boris Penis, as David Mavis sobbed before him. “That’s ruddy well crikey o’lumme not the done thing. If the old woman doesn’t want to play cricket with the big boys, then by crikey we’ll show her a thing or two!”
“Will you get my job back?” sobbed Mavis.
“Not ruddy likely!” stormed Boris. “It’s time we flippin’ well took a stand!” He stood up, almost dislodging the blow-dried marmoset on his head. “I’ll ruddy well resign as well! By ruddy!”
“So, it was with great regret that I tendered my resignation,” mourned Boris in front of the world’s press (which consisted of a shaven monkey and Knobby the talking Shetland Pony). “I felt that the Prime Minister’s plans for Brexit was at odds with my own, and I felt I had to practice words over the weekend which stuck in my throat. MUCH LIKE DAVID CAMERON’S KNOB STUCK IN THAT DEAD PIG’S THROAT, EH, READERS!!? WOOF WOOF! Anyway, Green’s plan for Brexit was nothing but a semi-Brexit, much like the semi I get when I think about starving paups. I have decided I can no longer be locked in the EU system, much like Madame Spanky Bollocks locks me in those pink handcuffs and introduces Uncle Pineapple to me bottom. Thank you, and fuck business.”
“That turncoat little shit!” hissed Theresa Green as she flung her lackey, The Moggy, through the TV screen. “Right, let’s get a couple of right incompetent bellends in their place, just to show these feckless gits that they can be replaced by even the most bungling losers. Who have me got, Moggy?”
“Well, we could have Dominic Scab replacing Mavis,” mused The Moggy. “He’s a right useless, evil-minded shit, who once said food banks weren’t used by people in poverty. To replace Boris we could have Jeremy Rhyming Slang. He’s so bloody useless he’s already been Culture Secretary and Health Secretary and managed to bugger both of those positions up.”
“Genius!” simmered Green. “Right, get the usual crap out to the press and I’ll meet you in the underground volcano for cocktails and vole punching.”
“Wah!” yelled Trump to the English press (an otter made out of anger and Filthy Ralph from the Off Licence). “I am now in England. Theresa Green smells of wee and does a big poo on Brexit. That is all.”
“Excuse me,” said Ima N Otter, lead sketch writer for the Guardian. “Did you say our PM smells of wee?”
“But you just said it.”
“I said she smells of… erm… ‘swee’, which is Scandinavian for ‘not wee’. FACT! Everything else is fake news! “
“Mwah ha ha!” said the Lizard Queen as she ate a marsupial. “Soon, Trump will be in my grasp, and soon I shall be able to use The Bastard Gun on the world, for some unspecified reason yet to be established. But then, we don’t need a reason, because we’re the Lizard Monsters who control the world! Evil laugh!”
Tune in for more ocelot guffaws next week, readers!