Like good Catholic infants reciting their rote-learned catechism without the slightest idea of what it means, the MEPs of the Brexit Party (The Alliance of the Terminally Thick), asserted their pragmatic rationality and raison d’etre, by heckling new EU commission president Ursula Von der Leyen, for suggesting that an extension to the Brexit negotiations was not entirely out of the question. Party leader Nigel “The Postman” Farage and windbag Anne Widdecombe, led the choir invisible in their protestations, as a sequel to their back-turning Brussels hissy-fit. Farage, proving once more that you can get a half pint into a pint pot, accused Von der Leyen of wanting to build “a centralised, undemocratic, updated form of communism where nation state parliaments will cease to have any relevance at all.” Postman Nige desperately wants to deliver Brexit, but if you are out, he will push a card through your door and you can collect it at the sorting office the next morning. Don’t forget to take your blue passport as ID.

Boris Johnson has got so many dead cats he’s running out of tables to fling them on. Since the description of his bus modelling hobby went down so well, he has apparently abandoned any attempt at reason. He now merely has to wave a kipper and whatever disconnected rubbish comes out of his mendacious gob is cheered to the rafters by the brain-dead Tory membership. Meanwhile, the fat fornicator’s leadership rival, Jeremy Hunt, challenges all this by standing next to him on the hustings, impersonating an Ikea wardrobe.

The new spring-loaded £50 note arrives soon, bearing a picture of persecuted homosexual and father of modern computing Alan Turing, who spent his early childhood in St Leonards. Better late than never I suppose, but not a lot of use to him. Prosecuted in 1952 for homosexual acts under the Labouchere Amendment of 1885, he accepted ‘chemical castration’ and committed suicide two years later by taking cyanide. Curious Fact: the £50 note, plastic or otherwise, is as unacceptable to today’s retailers as poor Turing was to the buttoned-up, hypocritical post-war establishment of the 1950’s.

12,000 people are to be made redundant by high street bookmaker William Hill, due, the company claim, to the government crackdown on the money-cow referred to as “fixed odds betting terminals”, which resulted in the reduction of the maximum bet from £100 to £2. When tearful gambling-industry employees telephone talk radio stations claiming to have been merely “helping people”, we have to wonder; where is all this bleeding-heart nonsense coming from? The filthy-rich gambling industry is solely responsible for creating the fixed-odds terminal problem, resulting in well-documented, widespread misery and financial destitution for many people, whilst at the same time shamelessly encouraging addictive behaviour. Bare-faced bookies William Hill (rapidly followed by all the others, no doubt), appear to be defending their cynical strategies as though they have been all along providing some kind of caring, essential social service. Regardless of circumstances, enforced redundancy is a very traumatic event and far be it for Lobbytroll to deny that, but it does not diminish the crippling social consequences of a nationwide chronic gambling problem. Since when was dangling temptation in front of hopeless addicts an occupation to be proud of? 

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