Poor MPs. I think we should all take a hearty moment or two to pity them. Think about it. Quite obviously the only reason they ever dared to embark on a career in politics was to become top dog. Why on earth would anyone dream of entering public service if there wasn’t even the slimmest chance of them becoming the person at the apex of the pyramid?
However, given the nature of the job there can only be one. And then there are people who have the cheek to stick around for more than one term. Surely someone’s mother should have sorted things out so that the children would have to share as that’s the fairest situation all round? David Cameron has well and truly had his turn so now someone had a crack at the job.
Nevertheless, many members of parliament are sufficiently well adjusted that they’ve been able to come to accept the fact that they won’t be at the helm of the country any time soon. So, miserably, they cast around for some other way to fill their days. The simple role of MP won’t be enough of course, constituents are terribly dull and attending to their needs is soul crushing.
Some tried hobbies but there are only so many bobble hats you can produce before the mania descends. Others thought it might be an idea to do something constructive like learning a foreign language but there was the ever present danger of having to mix with the common people.
That was how, out of sheer desperation, they were fooled into thinking an apprenticeship was the way out. Now they’re stuck in dead-end training schemes that will never lead to anything remotely fruitful and they’re just a little bit screwed in terms of career prospects. Sorry, not MPs, teenagers. I do tend to get those mixed up for some impenetrable reason.
I really don’t know why they didn’t think of this before. It’s so mind numbingly simple that they definitely ought to be ashamed for not at least trying to attempt this previously. After all, Isis are a respectful and law abiding organisation. All they needed was to be told a very firm and definite no and they’d have no choice but to cease all activity.
No entity in this world or the next is held in higher esteem that our good old fashioned British government. They’ve got the backing of the queen and everything. When they issue an order on something the whole planet stands to attention and takes notice. Once we’ve finally got this whole Islamic State kerfuffle sorted out and well and truly behind us, Teresa May can get to setting all the world’s ills to rights simply by banning all the problems.
People will be forced to stay within half a mile of the precise location of their birth. Those around them will be banned from oppressing them of course and everyone will be made to be cheerful and neighbourly. The world’s climate will be banned from changing any more and essentially reset to how it was back in the good old days. For those who weren’t alive back then, that’s probably the fifties when everything was good and happy.
In a surprisingly left wing move, possibly to pre-empt anything Corbyn might once have done (obviously he’ll have been banned from having anything to do with parliament and will have gone to set up a nice sandwich shop somewhere out of the way of Westminster), bankers will be banned from drawing obscene bonuses and all the money will go to the ladies of the WI who’ll use it to fund community outreach courses to teach everyone how to knit. And all the other countries will be banned from deploying their nuclear weapons. Naturally.
As a regular rail commuter I can affirm, just in case you were wondering, that ticket prices in this country are ridiculous. With workers striking seemingly every other week it’s directing everyone’s attention to the faintly unacceptable state of the rail network in this country.
For the price you pay it wouldn’t seem too tall an order for the trains to be on time and not completely packed out with other people. All I want is a comfortable carriage to myself where I can nap as we sail past the office. But we rarely seem to get what we want in life now do we?
But the controllers at the top of the chain of command have actually seemed to listen to the rumbling chorus of dissent. They’re readying themselves to roll out a raft of far more reasonable fares. Obviously all we can do right now is wait for the other shoe to drop because this sort of thing doesn’t happen without ugly consequences coming around to kick us where the sun doesn’t shine.
So if you haven’t quite got your wherewithal together in order to be in a position to book your journey a year in advance fear not. You can get the super saver ticket and be invited to perch on the roof of the carriage. For an additional fee you’ll be supplied with a rope or bungee cord to lash yourself to the surface. This is merely a simple and cost effective way to increase capacity. And imagine how refreshing your commute will become.
Don’t you go worrying your little head about it, they’ve got loads more ideas. You can earn happy train credits by picking up rubbish and telling people off for putting their feet up on the seats. Become a quiet carriage policer and you’ll be allowed to ride the rails for free.
There’s so much that you don’t see. Many an offence can be papered over by joyful innuendo and neat piping work. Sure the playfully gambolling lambs look adorable but no one’s addressed their recent carnivorous tendencies. Forlorn bakers on their way out are struggling to make it out with all their limbs intact.
And then there are the lewd and inappropriate overtures of a certain judge we won’t name for fear of litigation. We’re not even getting to the piles of toxic waste strewn around the grounds of that quiet country manor. Or the fact that it was originally built on an ancient Indian burial ground. It only takes a few minor hauntings for it really not to be funny anymore.
So while it’s very important that someone is crowned winner of pies and awarded with a beautifully tasteful cake stand some variety of action needs to be taken. The favourite baker must be rescued. But who might this be? The one with the most communicative eyebrows ever? He who sculpts lions from bread? The eternal star of the tent? No, it obviously has to be the young Scottish one because I like her the best.
To set the stage, imagine the Mission Impossible music in the background (the gentle lilting of the usual soundtrack done away with). Infrared goggle on (because the night vision ones would be completely useless as they insist on shooting during the day) and get ready to interrupt some filming.
It doesn’t matter if pastries are cooling, crème pat is being made or even if some form of disaster is going down involving emergency cooling. Deploy the flash grenades, have the stun gun at the ready, duck around the protective arms of Mel and Sue, grab the girl and get the hell out of there. She may well be grateful enough to bake you some bread after your daring rescue.
The trouble with a war on smoke is that modern warfare is increasingly difficult to achieve without the production of smoke. And one would hate to appear to be hypocritical in these matters. Then again, perhaps they aren’t embracing their creativity fully at the moment. After all, what was the point in inventing complex biological weapons if they weren’t going to be put to effective use?
So release dangerous spores that will render everyone infertile or burden them with a gruesomely hacking cough for the rest of their days. That way they won’t feel the need to turn to cigarettes in order to reach those walrus like tones. I think the mass sterilisation was pure spite but I suppose one of the perks of being a top dog is getting to take your bad moods out on others.
Why have the government suddenly taken against trickery? I thought they were massive fans of people keeping guessing and then going for the grand gory unveiling. Maybe they simply don’t much want anyone else to be able to partake of such fun. Or perhaps there’s been some comical misunderstanding.
A high ranking government official (I’m not entirely sure which department they were in, probably welfare of cheeses infrastructure) was going through something of a midlife crisis. Suddenly the sight of the sagging wrinkles and unfashionable glasses in the mirror were too much. These coupled with the yellowing fingertips was enough to reach the breaking point. Smoking was sworn off forevermore and in a fit of pique a mirror in his office was smashed.
Anyway, once a war is declared there’s simply no going back. Crack out the guns and serious faces, start whistling your marching songs and figure out your game plan because this isn’t over until it’s over. Or shortly before if you’re including tea breaks.
It’s quite hard to figure out the most problematic part of this story. Remind me again why train carriages suddenly require segregation? So if you happen as a lady traveller-ess to be journeying with a boy and you want to sit together you’re either forced to part in the name of safety or be exposed to the lascivious and untoward ways of other men? It’s hard to see the logic.
But the Chilcot enquiry, having solved that messy going to war on a false prospectus business, seeks to do more good in modern life. They’re just not going about it quite the right way. It was noticed that there was something of a furore going down over the whole gender divided carriages so Chilcot immediately set to work on ideas to right matters.
Of course, what’s the very best way to make sure that the ladies are more comfortable? No, don’t make any improvements whatsoever to the toilets or seat materials. Just make the aisles wider. They’ll be so much more at ease with that little extra space to relax in. It certainly won’t be perceived as a dig at how they could do with losing some weight.
Anyway, it’s happening so deal with it. At least it’ll make the women-only carriages that little bit easier to identify from the outside. Well, that will be the case if they don’t go in for spray painting them in hot pink and coating them in glitter. That’s definitely the sort of décor women prefer above all else.
Women are different. They require careful handling lest you damage their dainty souls. Separate them away from the world so there’s no chance of damaging them or offending their sensibilities. Don’t even let them out of the house as this will render the whole train debate irrelevant.
If people can’t stagger their way into work then they can’t possibly bugger up the economy can they? While this might at first appear to be the brainchild of an especially evilly mad scientist, the more you think about it the more sense it makes. Yes it does.
Because at the end of the day, money is an inert substance. It doesn’t do anything on its own. Sure the malevolent spirits that hover around currency in all its forms are wont to mess with your head. They want you to steal it and spend it, fritter it away on fripperies so that the cold light of dawn leaves you lonely and desolate. Or something.
But when left alone money really doesn’t get up to all that much. It doesn’t throw raucous parties or invest itself in dodgy propositions. Probably. Therefore, if everyone’s off sick then things will stay exactly as they are. Sure, it’s not a great situation but this is an absolute definite guarantee that it will not get any worse. People still won’t be able to afford things like housing but most of them should be able to but the odd loaf of bread when they’re feeling frivolous and like they deserve a change from gruel.
I’m sure the question on the very tip of your tongue is how on earth did they create a super flu jab? Well, when you mix various strains of flu together in an appropriate vessel (namely a pig duck bird born from an unholy laboratory union) then magic happens and an incredibly infectious new virus emerges. This one is especially special because it targets people who work in the financial sector. I’m really not sure why.
When life deals you this particular kind of shiny weapon how on earth are you supposed to resist the temptation to use it? So you invent spurious logic and arguments to justify the deployment (somehow, because you simply want to watch the world burn isn’t a good enough reason if you aren’t a Bond villain caressing an extraordinarily fluffy white pussycat). The state of the economy is going to get really rather interesting. Watch it not move.