Hopes that Donald Trump had slumped dead onto his keyboard while tweeting last night have been dashed this morning after it emerged he has, instead, been making up UK election polling figures for the Times.
The word ‘Covfefe’ that appeared at the end of one of the president’s tweets turns out not to have been the result of his tiny fingers convulsing during agonising death throes, but a genuine attempt by Mr Trump to further enrich the English language following the success of ‘bigly’.
Mr Trump had a busy night. It is being widely accepted this morning that a YouGov poll published in the Times predicting a huge Labour surge can only have been the work of Donald Trump, belonging, as it does, to a world of deranged fantasy and wishful thinking.
The poll also predicts that Julian Assange will be elected mayor of Stockholm and a herbaceous border will ascend the throne of the Netherlands. Also, the Pope is really a ring-necked parakeet named Neville. As is Diane Abbott. Wibble.
After inadvertently revealing that her hair is the source of her astonishing mental agility and unerring political instincts, car crash politico Diane Abbott has been urged to reveal the identity of her hairdresser so we can all benefit.
‘Yeah,’ said one Labour spokesman today, ‘we had all just assumed that Diane was simply born with her searing intellectual insight. But when it became apparent that her hair was making all the big decisions we had to act, for the good of the party and the nation.’
It became apparent during yesterday’s Andrew Marr show, that shape of Ms Abbott’s hair determines whether, for example, murderous conscience-free bastards who like to blow up innocent people are a good thing or not.
As an illustration of this extraordinary phenomenon Ms Abbott revealed to the BBC that her 1970s afro was wholly in favour of the IRA, whereas the kind of Darth Vader-effect bouffant she currently wears is implacably opposed to any kind of violent extremism. Which is remarkable. Not to mention convenient. Given that she wants to be home secretary and everything.
Theresa May is reportedly considering an emergency tonsorial procedure that will stop her spinning in pointless self-defeating circles and actually hit the biggest bloody barn door in the history of British general elections.
UK General Election 2017: After the suspension of campaigning that followed the terrorist outrage in Manchester on Monday, the major political parties are set to resume electioneering today by shamelessly using the attack as an excuse to kick the crap out of each other. In the new spirit of togetherness and compassion, obviously.
Trump’s world tour hailed ‘an unequivocal and totally unexpected success’ by White House: The US president has managed not to fondle Angela Merkel’s lady garden live on TV, administer a gratuitous wedgie to the Pope, call the Saudi king a towel-headed bomb-happy Muslim fanatic, spray obscene graffiti on the wailing wall or blow anything up (although he did assault the prime minister of Montenegro, just to stay in shape).
This demonstration of iron self control makes the last week the most successful of Mr Trump’s presidency. In fact, the only successful week of Mr Trump’s presidency (provided the Montenegro PM recovers from his injuries).
Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn is expected to offer a seat in his shadow cabinet to Pippa Middleton later today. This comes after press coverage of Ms Middleton’s lavish wedding helpfully obliterated any mention of Mr Corbyn’s alleged enthusiasm for Irish people blowing stuff up.
The Daily Telegraph’s six thousand column inches on the society wedding of the year broke the incendiary news that a woman – wearing a dress – married a posh bloke – in a church, no less – watched by friends and family members.
The couple later drove off together. In. A. Car!
Speeches were reported to have been made, champagne drunk and wedding analysts have speculated that at some point during the event canapés may have been eaten. Several middle-aged male guests will have attempted to dance with tragic consequences, and at least one bridesmaid will have been felt up behind a Portaloo by a member of the band, almost certainly a saxophonist.
Crucially for Labour however, Jerry Adams was not on the guest list and nobody tried to explode anything, unless you count the best man popping inflated condoms ‘for a laugh’.
Mr Corbyn is expected to offer Ms Middleton (or whatever she’s called now) the prestigious dinner party and flower arranging portfolio. Or defence, whatever.
Ms Middleton – who looks like a committed Marxist, albeit with a nicer than average bottom – is almost bound to accept. I mean, who wouldn’t?
The course of the general election was turned upside down last night during an epoch-making televised Leaders’ Debate featuring no one with the slightest chance of ever becoming prime minister.
After Jeremy Corbyn opted to spend his evening making jam and Theresa May announced she ‘simply couldn’t be arsed’ to turn up, it was left to five other internationally respected political heavyweights to fill an hour of ITV airtime – presumably because they’ve lost that film of a potter’s wheel they used to use.
Lib Dem leader Tim Farron, the SNP’s Natalie Sturgeon, Plaid Cymru’s Natalie Wood and Green Party co-leader Natalie Lucas took turns making Ukip’s Paul ‘Natalie’ Nuttall look bigoted and stupid. After the debate ended Mr Nuttall visited Tesco where a packet of chocolate digestives also managed to make him look bigoted and stupid. In fact it did a better job than Tim Farron and odds have shortened on a Hob Nob being elected the next Lib Dem supremo.
The debate was deemed such a success in changing the course of British parliamentary democracy that ITV plans to hold an event of equal significance next week, which will feature a panel of retired Crackerjack presenters and a variety of root vegetables, including Paul Nuttall.
News that childless couples and unmarried young people will no longer have to subsidise school lunches for junior members of the aristocracy has outraged middle class voters in Jeremy Corbyn’s own constituency.
‘This is the greatest injustice ever perpetrated on the human race,’ said one Islington mother too incoherent with rage to pronounce her name, ‘how dare these evil Tories take the food from out of the mouths of my little Milo and Antigone?’
‘What this manifestly wicked policy is going to cost me and my architect husband means our children will go without this year: without organic corn-fed roast chicken on a Sunday – we may be reduced to buying ordinary pikey chickens like people who work in the public sector – and maybe even without fast-track lift passes when we Christmas at Gstaad. We might even have to downgrade to Grindelwald for heaven’s sake! After hearing the news I even found myself searching the web for generic supermarket quinoa! Nobody should be brought so low! It’s inhuman!’
We pointed out that, under Conservative proposals, actual poor children would still get free school meals, but that just got her going again:
‘We are poor, you tit!’ she bellowed through the window of her Range Rover, ‘we just don’t fritter our money away on Tennent’s Extra and lottery tickets like some of the lard-arsed Ukip-volting proles around here. I’ve been wearing the same Balenciaga two piece for nearly a year now! No one knows my pain! No one!’
We were going to mention that, in addition to the new school meals policy, poor young people will no longer be required to pay the heating bills of rich old people, but courage deserted us and she just drove off to her Pilates class.
In a sweeping and radical five-year plan (or ‘Labour manifesto‘ as it is being referred to in public) Jeremy Corbyn has pledged to bring the Dalston Mercury back into public ownership ‘at the earliest opportunity’.
As with the rest of the party’s manifesto, which was launched yesterday, the cost of re-nationalising the Mercury has been calculated by a crack team of elves and fairies who live in a magical kingdom far, far away. And spend most of the time drunk.
The magic fairies estimate the bill for bringing the Mercury back into public hands as somewhere between ‘nothing at all and £50 billion, give or take, depending on whether we have to buy toner for the photocopier’.
Labour’s most sophisticated financial minds – those belonging to Diane Abbott and a small pot of Marxist geraniums – have checked the elves’ figures and declared them ‘absolutely spot on. Erm… oh, hang on though… is 50 billion more than £7.50? Erm… carry the four, divide by one and… look, stop asking me about numbers you racist bastard.’
In Other Election News:Twinkle-toed Unite union chief Len McCluskey has admitted publicly that he ‘can’t see Labour winning’ the general election.
Other astonishing revelations made yesterday by Mr McCluskey include: he ‘can’t see a set of patio furniture winning next year’s Grand National’ and ‘Len McCluskey’s chances of appearing on the cover of Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit edition modelling a daring slashed-thigh aquamarine one-piece are slim at best. Though still better than Labour winning the election’.