George Wally Bush abandoned his usual Thursday afternoon tea party today to address the American nation...along with any others, whose names he couldn't remember, who might have been listening at the time. "After regime change in Iraq," he said proudly...having looked up the word "Regime" the night before in his "Bumper Garfield Illustrated Dictionary" and remembered it correctly..."Iraq will shine like a beacon of democracy."
More like a fucking bonfire I'd say.
Elsewhere, in the darker continents, Tony Blair was still recovering in hospital this morning from last night's rebel revolt. (Apparently Luke Skywalker and Darth Blair met on the balcony of the Lords before engaging in battle. 100,000 innocent Londoners were killed as the debate wore on...but, hey, fuck 'em...they're not like the rest of us so they're not important.)
Over 120 backbenchers voiced their opinion against the party whip's wishes, voting against Tony "I'll put it simply so you can understand" Blair's handling of the Iraq Crisis and ensuring that their once beloved P.M. (now P.M.S.) received an almighty kicking to his metaphorical goolies. (I say metaphorical...no doubt many of them would have been glad to put the boot in physically if Uncle Tony actually had any balls for them to connect with.)
In a recent poll conducted by the Government Office for Manipulated Statistics a staggering 119% of the population of Britain are now against the impending war. "You're all fools!" laughed Blair maniacally from his BUPA bed. "You were all anti-American before! Now you're anti-British." Deputy Prime Minister, fat bastard and Wigan South Pie Eating Champion of 1997, John Prescott, immediately acted on his mentor's diatribe, drawing up blueprints for a full-scale invasion of Britain. "If the people won't comply wi' the government's wishes," Prescott slobbered in his richly fabricated northern accent. "Then we 'ave no other option but t' kill 'em all. It's fuckin' 'umiliatin' is all this...and that's sommet we're not goin' t' stand for." At which point his tiny legs snapped beneath the full ballast of his guts, thus proving his point.
This afternoon the Archbishop of Canterbury (The Anglican Church's equivalent to the Pope, only not quite so little and hunched and squeaky) was sworn into office, several ministers, including our beloved Uncle bin Tony who'd been let out of his ward on afternoon release, standing outside the cathedral muttering "...fucking turncoat..." beneath their breaths.
Di the Bishop (or whatever his name is) is apparently the first Archbishop of Canterbury in over four-hundred-thousand years (I'm measuring in worm-years here...since the thirteenth century to the rest of us) to be Welsh. The choir sang, "We'll keep a welcome in the hillside" for his ordination as the sounds of bleating rose from the vestry. Apparently he's also an honorary druid and after Holy Communion he went on to slaughter a pig, dangle its entrails over the horrified congregation and wrap some mistletoe round his cock as part of his ongoing fertility treatment.
Dr Williams (I've remembered his name now...) said that he could see a case for gay couples getting married...so as long as at least one member of the couple was a woman. And preferably covered in wool. He then went on to conduct a minor's miner's choir, with a singing steam train in the middle of it, in a rousing chorus of Max Boyce's, "It's great to be a stereotype."
