Jeremy Corbyn – Labour’s Attack Dog (Stop Laughing At The Back)

Jeremy Corbyn’s supporters have praised the Labour leader’s performance at yesterday’s Prime Minister’s Questions, despite his apparent inability to hit a cow’s arse with a banjo, politically speaking.

‘It was a magnificent performance at the dispatch box from Jeremy,’ said one shadow cabinet member from behind a numbing opiate haze, ‘it exemplified the kinder, gentler brand of politics we pledged to introduce when he was elected. He was certainly pretty kind and gentle to Philip Hammond.’

Despite Chancellor of the Exchequer Mr Hammond’s trousers falling down as he performed a humiliating U-turn on a budget promise made only seconds earlier, Mr Corbyn chose not to question the government’s competence but to engage in a more elevated form of debate altogether.

Of his six permitted questions to the Prime Minister, three were about where she was planning to go on holiday this year; one was something to do with jam; another was ‘would you like me to fetch you a cup of tea?’, while the last question was not really a question at all, more a general compliment of the PM’s outfit and her new haircut.

Philip Hammond suffers a hernia trying to keep a straight face during Mr Corbyn’s withering attack

Mr Corbyn is expected to continue with his policy of ‘being frightfully nice to Tories, especially when they don’t deserve it’ by campaigning vigorously for his own sacking as Labour leader while steadfastly refusing to stand down from the role, thus crippling the opposition with many more months of internal division and ruinous byelection results.

In other news: The Irish gay community’s frustration at the repressive conservatism of life in the Republic spilled over into public yesterday.

A group of men performing a consensual act of love – one that would be acceptable in broad daylight down Old Compton Street – were forced to masquerade as firemen to avoid the baleful influence of the Catholic Church.

‘It’s terrible that we should be forced into the shadows this way,’ said one participant as he removed his baby oil with Swarfega, ‘we’re just a group of friends getting together to remove a guy’s cock ring with an angle grinder; it was his birthday, he’d been looking forward to it for ages.’

‘In truth, none of us really minded pretending to be firemen and doctors while we did it, but in any civilised country we’d be allowed to dress up a slutty nuns and do it in a nightclub toilet, as nature intended.’



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