Let Freedom Ring by Covid-19

Today is the day.

Today, at last, this freedom-loving nation can cast off the shackles of lockdown, escape the clutches of oppressive government diktat, and taste the sweet nectar of fresh Covid particles.

Since the earliest days of the pandemic, down the brutal halls of Westminster, blackened by the fires of deceit and the searing coals of obfuscation…I have waited.

Since eighteenscore months ago, when Dominic Cummings first called for herd immunity, I have waited for the promise of this nation to be kept.

This promise was a vow that all viruses would be guaranteed the unimpeachable rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of the clinically vulnerable.

Millions have hidden in their homes, or gagged themselves with cloth masks in shops, in a rare period of public spiritedness and fortitude.

To this I say: never again!

So today, let freedom ring.

Let freedom ring down on the London underground, where passengers breathe particulates over one another with the force of a thousand hurricanes.

Let freedom ring on Chequers, where poor Boris Johnson is humiliatingly trapped at home.

Let freedom ring on the schools and the poorest communities where all our unvaccinated lie.

Let freedom ring.

From the busiest aisles of Tesco to the crumbling care homes of Chichester. From the heaving clubs of Soho to the pubs of Penzance, hear my rallying cry:-

Free at last, free at last, thank Boris almighty, I am free at last!

I had a dream that one day my variants and my variants’ variants would be able to sit down together at the table of a Wetherspoons in Stoke and mix freely with the public.

And that dream came true today.

Tolerance 'getting out of hand' say angry men

Britain’s angry men are in distress, say psychologists. ‘Kindness towards strangers, tolerance of difference, a generally calmer society – this all sounds positive,’ said Professor Watson of the University of West Huddersfield.

'But angry men need an outlet. If they can’t abuse a neighbour for the colour of his skin or shout sexual threats at passing women, where’s all that energy supposed to go?’ Angry men aren’t really joiners so there are no ‘official’ societies for them, though any political movement connected with Nigel Farage seems to be a good place to look.

We spoke to Bill (not his real name), an angry man in Stafford. ‘I just want to know – when do we get a parade? The world has changed beyond all recognition. Even my local chippy now has a . . . bloke, do I call him that? . . . anyway, some days he’s in a dress, some days trousers. The chips are as good as ever and I always chat to him, her – fuck me, this is complicated.’

‘In the good old days I’d throw some good-natured banter about and if anybody didn’t like it we could get into a ruck. Nowadays, beat somebody to a pulp because they’ve got foreign skin or whatever and it’s a hate crime. Was it a friendship crime before? Cause we don’t mean nothing by it, it’s how we bond.’

Government policies have contributed to the problem. PE teaching vacancies are down and the police only take graduates. Nightclub door staff have to be registered. There’s always the French Foreign Legion, but it’s both French and Foreign, two words guaranteed to trigger an angry Brit.

Bill is pacing up and down Stafford High Street, twitching every time a schoolgirl with large breasts walks past. He punches himself in the face repeatedly, his tension almost palpable.

‘I don’t know what I’ll do next. Thank God for the Euros. Booing the Kraut anthem was great, and we all laughed at that silly girl crying because her team got thrashed. Get used to it love, there’s loads more where that came from. One world cup and two world wars, doo dah, doo dah.’

‘Hancock genius' remark signals Rees-Mogg's return to frontline politics

Jacob Rees-Mogg’s assessment of how Matt Hancock handled the pandemic, has reportedly convinced Boris Johnson to encourage the leader of the house to play a bigger part in frontline politics once more. Despite Mr Hancock’s spectacular fall from grace since.

The part-time Gussie Fink-Nottle impersonator, once an almost daily source of comedy entertainment on our screens, disappeared from public life quite some time ago giving considerable cause for concern to absolutely no one at all.

On hearing the news, Billericay whelk stall holder, Barry Shite said: ‘If this is true then I’m well made-up, cos Jacob’s my guy. Look mate, just like him, I never had fack all until I pulled myself up by my bootstraps.’

‘See, we’re cut from the same cloff, innit? And now he’s back on the scene, the man in the street’s gonna get a fair crack of the whip. It ain’t no sin to be borassic, and Jacob, more than most, knows that only too well.’