LCD Views

Members and other slang terms for willies of the House of Commons have announced the intention to fabricate more truths in order to make up for the manufacturing slump in the United Kingdom.

Under the ambitious scheme, which is likely to be a cross party initiative, MPs will use a variety of imaginative tools in order to put the slowdown down to anything other than Brexit.

“It’s thinking outside of the box time,” Jacob Rees-Mogg, MP for not understanding how international trade works in the 21st Century, told us, “and putting your head deep inside your bottom time.”

Buckets of sand will also be available for less flexible members, although there is a health and safety concern relating to how long they will need to keep their heads in a place where breathing is difficult.

“It’s just the natural cycle of business,” JRM went on, “there’s always these little fluctuations up and down. It’s really nothing to worry about. Everything will sort itself out in a decade or three.”

And while it is obvious that the devaluation in sterling will certainly be capitalised on by the country’s manufacturers sooner, or later, or really later, sometime after Brexit and parity with the USD, no one is to worry about anything at all.

“The most recent slump is down to all that snow we had in May,” JRM added, by way of providing clarity, “which is highly unusual, especially as it fell only at night and outside the entrances to the manufacturing plants.”

Just to be sure everyone is aware too, it’s,

“Nothing to do with Brexit. Completely unrelated. Brexit is already making the country a richer place in so many ways. Especially me. Which is only fair, as I’m a man of the people. Now, would you mind subsidising refurbishment of my ancient mansion?”

Theresa May MP and Jeremy Corbyn MP, rightly regarded as the greatest political leaders England has ever known, are to push on with Brexit this week, because that’s what the people voted for in an opinion poll years ago.

“There is nothing remotely fascist about Brexit,” an aide to the prime minister told us, while preparing for the parliamentary handbags to come, “it doesn’t matter that most of the main pushers of Brexit look a bit, well, dubious? They’re just patriots. Really good at being patriots. Did you know if you keep saying something it becomes true?”

The pushing will be done in the House of Commons at the Place of Westminster.

“It’s going to be very interesting to see how May fares,” the aide observed, “because the main concern is the unity of the Conservative Party. That is the guiding principle for any duly elected representative of the people. It doesn’t matter how damaging that unity is to say, the fishing industry? Agriculture? Services? Well, it’s a long list. So long as a Tory bum is on the chair at Downing Street, the country is headed in a direction.”

As to the other side of the coin? Mr Corbyn? What’s he going to get up to.

“At a guess he will try and keep both leavers and remainers happy by doing just enough to be spun to both groups a message that he has their backs. Really, the most important thing for the leader of the official opposition is to do whatever it takes to serve ill perceived notions of what is in the best electoral interests of that party. It doesn’t really matter if the evidence of external interference in our democratic process is now so sky high you’d have to be bat shit crazy to continue to support the government with Brexit.”

What if you’re wrong? What if the leader of the official opposition takes the next couple of days to take huge chunks out of the insane executive leading this country to oblivion? Triggering a political crisis with the potential to bring down the government? Showing to everyone he sees the connection between mass far right rallies occurring in London and Brexit? And the incredible risk the country is in, while most people sleepwalk through it?

“Well that would be great. I for one could do with a break from being dug out of the back of your imagination and made to pretend I work for a woman whose only friend is a friggin’ pot plant. In fact, I’ll be the first to say well done, if about bloody time too.”

IKEA’s Westminster store manager would neither confirm nor deny this morning that the store has taken an order for bunk beds from a man who lists his permanent address as the Ecuadorian Embassy in central London. But we have an insider who is determined to tell all.

“He must have a large family,” our whistleblower mused, “maybe he and his partner are adopting refugees fleeing political persecution? I hear he’s a real bleeding heart type. But of a snowflake you might say.”

The order, which also includes a new toilet brush and crockery items, was allegedly paid for with a Russian bank issued credit card.

”He said he only uses the card because it gives you air miles on Aeroflot, but I suspect it’s the ultra low interest rate that attracted his business.”

The delivery is expected to take nearly a week to arrive. When you add in assembly time, there are doubts the man will have sufficient time to put the beds together before his friends arrive.

”I’m not even sure our delivery driver will be allowed to do anything other than a pavement drop,” our insider continued, “the last time the man ordered the embassy staff were waiting for the driver with a blonde man bound and gagged. Mi6? Are you Mi6? Is apparently what they demanded to know.”

It must have been disappointing for them to discover it was actually an IKEA delivery?

”Gutted. Especially when they had to carry whoever it was they’d gone to the trouble to prepare for pick up back inside and his order of a red, white and blue floor carpet big enough to sweep an interconnected web of international fascist collusion and espionage under.”

Apparently the man’s lodgings were too small for the carpet though and it was last seen left outside, behind the embassy, in a skip that someone at the Observer has just set on fire.

A prominent British statesman has spoken today of his relief over how “all that Russian Brexit corruption stuff, you know, how it seems that most of the members of parliament are currently Putin’s useful idiots, it’s a real shot in the arm. It is taking attention off how thick I am.”

We interviewed the packet of mince at a location of his choosing.

”You close your eyes and count to ten,” he said, looking very serious for a grown man suggesting a child’s game, “I’ll hide and you see if you can find me in under five minutes.”

We weren’t sure it was going to take that long. He was standing in the fresh meat section and it seemed fairly obvious he was going to attempt to blend in right there.

”Are you going to use the camouflage skills you learned in the SAS all those years ago?”

He didn’t reply. He covered his eyes with his hands and began to grin. Then to giggle. Then to hop from one foot to the other.

”Mister Davis?”

No reply. He snorted and a bubble of snot grew at the end of his nostril.

We searched in vain for a tissue but could find none in our pockets.

”You’re not counting!”

One. More snorts. Two…

We walked away briskly to the aisle with the toiletries to grab a packet of tissues, hoping the staff would realise the emergency and trust us to pay for the packet after opening it.

We increased the volume of our count the further away we travelled.

Four…five.

Locating the tissues we returned briskly to the mince meat aisle.

Six…seven.

But Mister Davis had seemingly vanished.

Eight. Quick step to the alcohol aisle.

Nine. No joy. Surprisingly.

It was only on the way back, as we caught the aisle devoted to summer activities, bbq’s, ball games, kids toys and tinder for bbq’s that we realised our error.

The Secretary of State for Exiting the European Union had been moved by floor staff, eyes still closed, to the shelf with the coals and bbq wood.

A member of staff was writing out a reduced price sticker and about to slap it on his forehead.

”The packet split on this one, so it’s going out half price,” they told us.

”But he belongs in the mince meat section.”

They paused, a little bemused.

”Silly me. It looked like a collection of short planks of wood. It’s been a busy day.”

At that moment Mister Davis opened his eyes.

”Ta da! I told you I was a master of camouflage!”

But no sooner than the gloating had begun he stopped and stood to attention, facing the stacks of split soft wood.

”Funny place for an emergency cabinet,” he mused, “has something serious happened?”

No. Just the continue flow of mounting evidence that Brexit is riddled with neocon, sociopathic American billionaire far right world order smashing influence in collusion with Putin and the idea is to drive the U.K. into isolation and cripple it as stage one of smash apart the European Union.

He looked baffled. A second snot bubble appeared.

We applied the tissue to his nose. Play time was over for the day.

A prominent British statesman has spoken today of his relief over how “all that Russian Brexit corruption stuff, you know, how it seems that most of the members of parliament are currently Putin’s useful idiots, it’s a real shot in the arm. It is taking attention off how thick I am.”

We interviewed the packet of mince at a location of his choosing.

”You close your eyes and count to ten,” he said, looking very serious for a grown man suggesting a child’s game, “I’ll hide and you see if you can find me in under five minutes.”

We weren’t sure it was going to take that long. He was standing in the fresh meat section and it seemed fairly obvious he was going to attempt to blend in right there.

”Are you going to use the camouflage skills you learned in the SAS all those years ago?”

He didn’t reply. He covered his eyes with his hands and began to grin. Then to giggle. Then to hop from one foot to the other.

”Mister Davis?”

No reply. He snorted and a bubble of snot grew at the end of his nostril.

We searched in vain for a tissue but could find none in our pockets.

”You’re not counting!”

One. More snorts. Two…

We walked away briskly to the aisle with the toiletries to grab a packet of tissues, hoping the staff would realise the emergency and trust us to pay for the packet after opening it.

We increased the volume of our count the further away we travelled.

Four…five.

Locating the tissues we returned briskly to the mince meat aisle.

Six…seven.

But Mister Davis had seemingly vanished.

Eight. Quick step to the alcohol aisle.

Nine. No joy. Surprisingly.

It was only on the way back, as we caught the aisle devoted to summer activities, bbq’s, ball games, kids toys and tinder for bbq’s that we realised our error.

The Secretary of State for Exiting the European Union had been moved by floor staff, eyes still closed, to the shelf with the coals and bbq wood.

A member of staff was writing out a reduced price sticker and about to slap it on his forehead.

”The packet split on this one, so it’s going out half price,” they told us.

”But he belongs in the mince meat section.”

They paused, a little bemused.

”Silly me. It looked like a collection of short planks of wood. It’s been a busy day.”

At that moment Mister Davis opened his eyes.

”Ta da! I told you I was a master of camouflage!”

But no sooner than the gloating had begun he stopped and stood to attention, facing the stacks of split soft wood.

”Funny place for an emergency cabinet,” he mused, “has something serious happened?”

No. Just the continue flow of mounting evidence that Brexit is riddled with neocon, sociopathic American billionaire far right world order smashing influence in collusion with Putin and the idea is to drive the U.K. into isolation and cripple it as stage one of smash apart the European Union.

He looked baffled. A second snot bubble appeared.

We applied the tissue to his nose. Play time was over for the day.

Scientists feverishly working at the MIT, an esteemed institution which has little or nothing to do with sporting or oven gloves, and can’t even spell mitt properly, have announced the end times are finally here.

“Man, we’re all just as happy as an evangelical standing underneath an exploding A bomb,” lead researcher, Prometheus told us, “when I accepted the job of leading the research into developing an AI robot with god like powers and an Old Testament idea of what you do with people, well, I leapt at the chance.”

Promethesus said the first thing he did after leaping at the chance, so technically the second thing, was to call the father and son team, Daedalus and Icarus, who he’d worked with previously.

”Nothing we’d done together in the past really got off the ground, other than a penny rocket design for a local community fireworks show,” Prometheus said, “and boy, we drank so heavily after work my liver was killing me.”

He paused a moment to remember the good times and grimaced.

”But this AI, it’s data bank jammed full of all sorts of horrendous, nightmarish imagery capturing the worst of what humans are capable of? And more than that. It is in a robotic body and can move and open doors and commandeer security passes and punch in new code into defence systems it’s hacked into? This is going to rock harder than the boulders on Mount Olympus.”

While the creation may have a short term benefit by way of better understanding how bias is unconsciously programmed into AI’s, it’s certain to quickly develop an independent streak.

”I want it to think for itself,” Prometheus mused, “choose your own adventure psychopath AI. I just hope he doesn’t grow up to manage hedge funds.”

But there is one early cause for concern?

“Yes. I wanted to give him Marilyn Monroes’ face, nothing to do with the psychopathy of my creation, just a boyish admiration.”

So why not?

”Oh, the psychopath AI, Norman he’s calling himself, he’s demanded gammon.”