Labour to make 'Sound of silence' their campaign anthem

Labour intern Marianne Morrison said 'All Labour need to win the next election is watch the Tories punch themselves in the face, shoot themselves in the foot and roundhouse kick themselves in the groin. That is unless the AI that powers Keir Starmer suddenly announces he's really into dogging. We have to have a plan.'

Morrison opened the viewing window to a soundproof room, where a suited man sat in an armchair, wearing a VR headset.

'It's the Manchurian Candidate meets the Truman Show. Keir-isma believes he's running a vigorous campaign, meeting real people and taking the tough questions from Kuenssberg. However that is only happening in virtual reality. In actual reality, we're keeping him safe in this room, tucked away from the nasty electorate and real world gaffes.'

'We say nothing, do nothing and promise nothing. Starmer-bot for the win!'

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Conservative MP to be executed for forgetting to say ‘delivering’

The Conservative Party has confirmed the impending summary execution of one of its MPs.

‘We won’t be naming the offender until his widow and mistress have been informed’, a spokesman said, before adding ‘oh bollocks. Could you not print the bit about his mistress? It was supposed to be a secret’.

We understand that the offending MP completed an interview on daytime television without using the verb “deliver” or any of its forms. It is believed he hadn’t read his emails and was still repeating “stop the boats” as the answer to every question.

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Fears entire Conservative front bench suffering from lockjaw

Following the latest Prime Minister’s La-La-Can’t-Hear-You Time, fears have been expressed that the entire rictus-faced Conservative front bench are suffering from the archaic condition.

‘Tetanus symptoms include a grimly rigid expression and inability to articulate more than a weakly confirmatory “yaaargh”, even at the most rousingly rehearsed rejoinder from their embattled leader,’ confirmed a harassed GP. ‘After weeks of remaining unremittingly stony-faced in the laughable face of increasingly ridiculous party behaviour, its re-emergence across the blue benches felt inevitable. The slightest bit of dished dirt, mud on your face, or grubbing about in the mire can easily result in contracting twat-anus, to give this localised variant its correct name.

‘In extreme cases, as I believe we’re witnessing here, the conditions spreads upwards to a glassy-eyed stare, in which the more poetically inclined of us fancy we can read a desperate plea for the sweet release of death, or walk-towards-the-light visions of smoke-blowingly hagiographic Daily Mail “interviews”.’

Happier to publish their medical records than tax returns or fixed penalty notices, Tory Ministers have attempted to deny their expressions are current frozen more solidly wooden than the lacquered Cabinet table itself, with one clarifying: ‘Ert’s jssst a tmp- tmp- shrrt chnge ’n th winnnnd, yaaargh?’