Work is the Best Way Out of Public-Sector Poverty

Improvements in the job market are helping to ensure that the more deserving members of Britain's white, pink and puce working class have no immediate need to visit a food bank, except perhaps for sniggering purposes. Fifty-two former ministers have found gainful employment outside Parliament: an increase of almost sixty per cent on last year. It was, of course, obvious from the first that the late Head Boy viewed the highest public office in the land as little more than a networking opportunity; but other beneficiaries of our Mother of Democracies' intensely relaxed régime include the ludicrous Francis Maude, who has somehow found nine employers willing to take the risk that he will use their premises to store dangerous substances in jerry-cans; and Ed Davey, the former Deputy Conservative flunkey at the Department of Fracking and Fossil Fuels. In addition to eight other commissions, Davey has set up an "independent consultancy, which specialises in energy and climate change", though whether for or against would be difficult to tell from his record in office. Last and most self-lubricating is the Osbornomic miracle-worker himself, who has toddled into assorted sinecures and the editorship of the London Evening Fuck Theresa May; the last without deigning to consult the advisory committee on business appointments: a watchdog which guards against such derelictions by whimpering in its sleep and rubbing its gums together with almost incalculable ferocity.

We Will Defend Our Island

Despite the notorious Dubs amendment, which obliged Her Majesty's Government to strain Britain's already bulging seams by taking in swarms of junior cockroaches, the Ministry for Wog Disposal has been doing a sterling job of keeping our island safe. As long as the parliamentary wing of the Farage Falange still clings to office, sixty million buccaneering Britons will never fall victim to the dozens of child refugees waiting to swamp them. The Government initially set the limit at 350, but increased it to 480 on the grounds that the Chancellor isn't the only minister who can't count. Fortunately for the safety of our mighty yet fragile Britishness, such figures are irrelevant: the Ministry for Wog Disposal has managed to get through seven months of the present year without letting in a single child, and the relevant minister will spend some of the parliamentary recess celebrating with a little trip (purely in the public interest, of course) to Greece and Italy. Only two hundred places out of the promised pittance have been filled; but besides not endangering the British Empire or the best interests of the Cuppy-Duppy administration, "the transfers must take place in line with the national laws," in the words of the Minister for Locking 'em Up and Kicking 'em Out. Whether the minister was referring to the vicious, anti-buccaneering, Euro-wog laws of Greece and Italy, for which Her Majesty's Government has hitherto shown scant enthusiasm; or to the firm but fair laws of the Recrudescent Imperium of Westminster, Gibraltar and the Falkland Islands, which are explicitly designed to create a hostile environment, remains as yet unclear. No doubt the minister is well aware of the advantage of promising to take child refugees: namely that if you delay long enough the child refugees eventually turn into adult deportables, often in the space of only a few years; while refugees who are already adults can hang around for decades.

Helvetica Sans

In some of the milder samples of cinematic rah-rah about the Anglo-American defeat of the Nazi menace, a number of reluctant yet plucky little fighters end up in Switzerland; and now we can see why. Although the Swiss Confederation notoriously failed to assist Winston Churchill and his American chums in winning either World War, there is much about the country that must appeal to the patriotic citizen of Most Definitely Somewhere. Switzerland has never been a member of the European Union, which very nearly redeems its ghastly neutrality in the two official wars against the Hun; and as far as the mainstream of British opinion is concerned no country can be all bad which is full of bankers and Nazi gold. As if these advantages were not enough, the Swiss citizenship test has revealed itself as a thing of beauty to rival the hypothetical mutant offspring of Tin-Pot Tessie and the strutting ex-Caudillo of the Farage Falange. The system still lags behind the British one in that naturalisation is apparently open to some marital partners regardless of income; but the fiscal deficiency is more than redeemed by objections on grounds ranging from hate crimes against cow-bells to the wearing of jogging pants without due care and attention, and being too wilfully Turkish to understand the wonders of Hornussen, Schwingen or municipal recycling systems even after a quarter-century lifetime's residence.

Between the Dead

Just for a moment, let's forget the zombies. The late George A Romero did some great things with the disciples of Anubis in two major box-office hits, an under-rated third instalment and a twenty-first-century triptych; but he also made one or two films that fall outside the walking-dead subgenre. Most of these are worth rather more than footnote status, and at least one is a masterpiece.

The masterpiece, Martin (1976), was almost certainly the first I knew of him. I saw it semi-accidentally on late-night television; I had probably heard vaguely of Night of the Living Dead or Dawn of the Dead by that time, and perhaps even seen The Crazies; but my mid-to-late teens were a pre-auteurist phase and I had no idea of the director's significance. While by no means abandoning the black comedy, social satire and genre critique of the Living Dead films, Martin attains a higher and more painful mode of horror thanks to bleak visuals, a sophisticated script and a mesmerising performance from its star, John Amplas.

Knight Riders (1981), which Romero managed to make thanks to the financial success of its immediate predecessor, Dawn of the Dead, concerns a troupe of stunt motorcycle riders trying to survive as an Arthurian tribe independent of commercial demands and middle-class values. A rivalry develops between the idealistic King Billy (Ed Harris) and the more worldly Morgan (played by Tom Savini, Romero's spurt-and-splatter effects specialist, and the director of the excellent 1990 Night of the Living Dead remake); there are obvious parallels with Romero's own need to balance his artistic agenda with commercial requirements, and the film as a whole is an appealing mix of road movie, counterculture drama and existential rumination. Like Peckinpah's Junior Bonner ("I made a film where nobody got shot, and nobody wanted to see it"), Knight Riders bled to death at the box office and Romero's next project was the resolutely commercial Stephen King comic-book portmanteau Creepshow.

Monkey Shines (1988) is slightly compromised by the producers' insistence on a hopeful epilogue, but is for the most part an effective and original experiment with the theme of the beast from within. A beta-male scientist defies his overbearing superior by carrying out an unauthorised experiment involving a quadriplegic friend and a cerebrally-enhanced spider monkey. The monkey is intended as a friend and helper, but her psychological symbiosis with the crippled young man means that she soon starts giving more help than is strictly compatible with the welfare of others. Epilogue aside, the resolution is one of Romero's most ironically ferocious, as the hero demonstrates that evolutionary ascent isn't necessarily an uplifting process.

Between the entertaining but relatively conventional Stephen King adaptation The Dark Half (1993) and the inception of the second Living Dead series, Romero's career went into suspended animation: he was able to make only Bruiser (2000), a minor work about an upsilon-male office worker who puts on a blank white mask which sharply enhances his assertiveness skills. Five years later, the Living Dead brought Romero's career back on track; but while the quality and impact of the zombie films are Romero's most obvious legacy, it would be a pity to miss the eccentric individuals that lurk among his career's shambling hordes.

Serious Business

Democracy as we know it in our Mother of Parliaments is, of course, in its infancy among the proportionally-represented Euro-wogs; which may help explain why some people still have not grasped the true significance of Britain's decision to cut the Continent adrift. Her Majesty's Government does not care about tariffs, treaties or the border between the Six Colonies and the Irish Free State; Her Majesty's Government cares about immigration and sovereignty. While mere facts appear to indicate that immigration helps the economy to grow, and while the self-pitying squeal that was the Article 50 notification explicitly recognised that British sovereignty was a non-issue, Her Majesty's Government cares about immigration and sovereignty because these are what the British people care about; or at least that vital, entrepreneurial, wogs-out and rah-rah section of the British people whose opinion is all that matters to the sensible folk. Hence the more or less complete lack of interest or attention which Her Majesty's Government has devoted to the EU negotiations: the doings of a bunch of foreigners in faraway lands are simply not relevant to the serious, adult business of keeping the Farage Falange's migrant-bashers, refugee-drowners and hijab-grabbers in continued coalition with the Cuppy-Duppies.

A Positive Case for Brexit

Since forty-eight per cent of the population consists entirely of traitors, saboteurs, citizens of nowhere and wogs, it's hardly surprising that the blithering prima donna David Davis has been equipped with a rah-rah security briefcase. Digital devices can be protected from snoopers by putting them in the fridge, but members of the modern Conservative Party tend to have limited acquaintance with fridges, which are more the natural province of the little woman or other servants. Shielded briefcases and silent watches, by contrast, are accessories that the most puce-complexioned boy-jobber can sport in good conscience. It is certainly reassuring to see that the blithering prima donna has retained his dislike of snooping in at least some circumstances, as negotiations might well collapse should Her Majesty's Government's next capitulation be prematurely revealed to the back-bench baboons.

Like a Timid, Blushing Tomato, I Humbly Solicit Your Views

The jabbering homunculus that is Michael Gove has proclaimed a period in "listening mode" before its expected default to bluster, blather and name-calling. As a self-styled "shy green", its self-effacing instincts have led it to vote against whatever green measures the parliamentary wing of UKIP happens to dislike (viz. all of them) and to denounce green regulations from the EU. Our escape from such absurd diktat will, if the jabbering homunculus is to be believed, lead us into a new and wondrous era of environmental friendliness that will make the Recrudescent Imperium of Westminster, Gibraltar and the Falkland Islands the dread and envy of lesser breeds. With Tin-Pot Tessie's Great Enabling Act already under hostile scrutiny, no doubt the jabbering homunculus is prepared to consider any revisions within reason. Any suggestions that don't imply interference with the legitimate entrepreneurial interests of head-chopping Saudi fossil fuel merchants and water-poisoning frackers will almost certainly not result in the jabbering homunculus dismissing the proponent as a blob. As shy greenery goes, even vegetable matter such as the blithering Owen Paterson or the gormless Andrea Leadsom could hardly say fairer than that.

Up Yours, Gustavus Adolphus Hitlerus

Some people simply cannot understand plain English. Despite everything Her Majesty's Government has done to clarify its position, there are even now some Euro-wogs who have failed to understand the perils they are courting by not giving Britain everything it wants. The Imperial Haystack has pronounced upon the subject of paying our dues: "go whistle" as he phrased it with the usual restaurant-smashing diplomacy. The blithering prima donna David Davis has preened and postured with his customary hippopotamoid grace, and various other flubs and flunkeys have proclaimed their explicit desire to retain all the benefits of EU membership without any of the obligations. Could anything be clearer? Yet still the Euro-wogs continue to balk at such childishly obvious matters as the distinction between an expat and a migrant. Since expats are entrepreneurial individuals with hard-working families, and migrants are swarming hordes with illegal broods, the whole business could have been settled long before now, if only the Euro-wogs were not so fiendishly obsessed with dishing out Nazi-style punishments. On the day after the anniversary of Britain's famous victory in the Battle of Prokhorovka, do none of them remember who won the war?

Tough on the Non-Profitable Causes of Terrorism

Encouraging indications have emerged to the effect that extremist groups in Britain are not being funded by Iran, Russia, North Korea, Bashar al-Assad or Brussels. Had any of those less-than-British powers come under the smallest hint of suspicion, the race-baiting Clegg-pledger at the Home Office would have fallen over her tax avoidance to name and shame them, thereby handing to the Imperial Haystack and any Blairites it could summon to the flag their cue to start thumping the tub for a restorative bit of wog-bombing. Instead, the Clegg-pledging race-baiter has published a one-page summary of a long-delayed report which was originally commissioned by the late Head Boy during the Conservative administration of 2010-15, in return for the support of his little orange chums over wog-bombing Syria. The martyred St Timothy of Westmoreland has been huffing and puffing at the immorality of it all, presumably because the Deputy Conservatives appear to have negotiated that bargain almost as shrewdly as the stitch-up on parliamentary reform.

Despite the race-baiting Clegg-pledger's famous enthusiasm for naming names and shaming traitors, her summary treats with remarkable tact those enemies of Britain who throw money at the killers of innocent civilians; although it must in fairness be remembered that terrorists have killed rather fewer Britons this year than those champions of civilised values who were in charge of Grenfell Tower. Given the sudden attack of discretion on the part of a government not generally noted for its dignified aversion to foaming and squealing, we may assume that the threadbare "national security" fig-leaf is once again providing a token cover for the sins of Her Majesty's Government's favourite Islamic extremists, the head-chopping House of Saud; as well as for any emotionally vulnerable rotten apples among the security services who may inadvertently have married into terrorist organisations.

You Can't Expect a Boy to be Vicious Till He's Been to a Good School

Fury at migrant horror

Britain's tabloids are imminently expected to erupt with demands that the aristocracy loudly and unanimously condemn the posting of malicious and threatening comments on social media.

The free and cantankerous press will be responding to the judgement against the serially insolvent Rhodri Colwyn Philipps, fourth Viscount St Davids, who offered a bounty on Facebook for running over an immigrant.

Gina Miller, who is an immigrant, plotted with enemies of the people to force Parliament to exercise its sovereignty on the issue of Brexit, despite the obvious fact that all talk of parliamentary sovereignty during the referendum campaign was purely and simply a transparent rubric for racial paranoia and wog-bashing.

The viscount, who shares his aristocratic sense of humour with Britain's piccaninny-kicking Foreign Secretary, described the immigrant Miller as a "boat jumper" and suggested that she and other immigrants should be sent "back to their stinking jungles".

In further tribute to his intellectual prowess, the viscount defended himself in court. It is not at present known whether he was entitled to legal aid.

According to the moral code of the British press, minorities are generally held collectively responsible for objectionable behaviour by individual members, although the viscount's offence will be somewhat mitigated by not having been fictitious.