Thatcher’s ghost dictating economic policies via p*ssed medium

Today we’re with Sally Preston, a psychic with a drink problem who has been helping Her Majesty’s Government set economic policy by conversing with the ghost of Margaret Thatcher.

Sally gives me an appraising look. 'You’ve lost somebody close to you. Is the letter H significant?'

'No', I say, then immediately feel guilty as she seems so vulnerable, swigging away from her bottle of Jacob’s Creek chardonnay. 'Oh, I used to have a hat'.

'That’ll be it', she tells me, before slumping back into her chair, seemingly half asleep.

'Are you here about the economy?'

'Yes', I lie. Sometimes an investigative journalist has to push the boundaries.

Sally takes another drink from her bottle and her eyelids flutter manically. 'Margaret is in the room. She’s saying something about National Insurance'.

'Does she want it to go up? Down?'

'Down!' she says, suddenly leaning forward and fixing me with a terrifying glare. 'And fracking. Ronald has told her it’s for the best. Frack the whole country'.

'Is Reagan there too?' I ask.

'Of course. They’re an item now'.

'What about interest rates?'

'That’s enough for today. I’m tired'. Sally hauls herself upright and scans around for the door. I’m tempted to ask about ghost sex but force myself to stick with economics.

'We need to know. Should they go up? How do we avoid recession?'

Sally is already halfway to the door, staggering a little. 'Privatise something. The NHS. Privatise the NHS. Oh, and she says the Oxford comma is an abomination. Get rid of it'.

And she’s gone. Britain’s leading economic adviser has left the room leaving only a faint aroma of chardonnay and piss, and I realise what the H was all about. Horseshit.

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MP’s only wrongdoing was ‘groping on weeknight reserved for leering and coercive texting’

Guardians of Tory Propriety and Masters of Ceremonial Sleaze, including Mark Garnier, Stephen Crabb and Damian Green, have not at all downplayed Christopher Pincher’s drunken groping of two men on Wednesday night as a 'minor infraction of social intercourse etiquette'.

Garnier, also known as Mixmaster Sugartits, did not in any way confirm: ‘As laid down in the 'Party? PartAAAY!' constitution by Sir Craigwell Davidston, 3rd Viscount of Southampton and whipper-in with the Hampshire Dry Humpers, during the week one may use parliamentary privilege to force a liaison on Monday, moving onto casual drink-spiking on Tuesday, but non-consensual groping is improper before Thursday. Wednesday should be limited to lewd texting of one’s Honourable Member, while Friday is traditionally persistent recreational upskirting and frottage on the commute home to one’s constituency.’

‘Obviously pretty much anything is permitted on Saturday and Sunday,’ Stephen “check out THIS red box!” Crabb, did not add a little too enthusiastically. ‘But - and I cannot stress this enough - only if the parliamentary offices and equipment regularly used for such are wiped clean of lube, xylazine, and Banana Nesquik. They tend to clog up the photocopiers, and it's clear staffers are down on their knees enough as it is. Incest and bestiality should really be confined to deeply rural constituencies, where it’s pretty much de rigueur.’

Asked whether Pincher, who managed to climb back up the greasy pole - allegedly multiple times according to fellow “Late Voting Nite” revellers - after facing serious sexual misconduct allegations in 2017, should fall on his own sword, Damian “quick, close the browser” Green looked shocked and definitely didn't say: ‘If he retains the lower back flexibility to do that at his age, I’d be surprised, impressed, and deeply envious.’

Letting wine breathe is bollocks, confirms expert

The concept that leaving the cork out of a bottle of wine before imbibing is 'bollocks', according to a wine expert. Fred Engles, of no fixed abode, has been drinking wine for years, sometimes from a glass. 'Never left a bottle to breathe,' he said today, noting that wine doesn't have lungs, a mouth or any need for oxygen at all. 'It doesn't have a cardiovascular system, a bit like me,' he said. 'If I left a bottle to breathe, them bastards from the viaduct will have it away anyway,' he insisted.

'Now this is a cheeky little chardonnay, or perhaps paraffin extract - you can't really tell with Australian imports,' said Fred, swilling the bottle around. 'Best served with Brie. Or anything actually. Whatever is in the bin.'