Jubilee no longer sounds like a real word, Britain agrees

HAVING heard the word ‘jubilee’ so much over the last few days, the public agrees it no longer knows if it is real or not.

After being relentlessly bombarded with the term over the course of the long weekend, it is now nothing more than a series of consonants and vowels which have lost all meaning.

Roy Hobbs from Kettering said: “If you asked me a few days ago I would have been able to tell you with certainty what jubilee meant. But now my best guess is that it’s some sort of medicine, or maybe a breed of wading bird.

“Although that doesn’t explain why I see it plastered all over shop windows and the telly. Maybe there’s a closing down sale and all jubilees must go. I should probably buy a couple, just in case.”

Kelly Howard from Wrexham said: “I tried looking ‘jubilee’ up in the dictionary to see if that would help, but it only made things worse because I was repeating it to myself like a lunatic as I flicked through the pages.

“Apparently it means ‘a special anniversary of a sovereign’s ascension, usually celebrated at 25, 50 or 70 years’. So at least if that’s right we shouldn’t have to worry about hearing it again for a while. Thank f**k.”

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30 minutes slagging off number five's extension: Your Jubilee street party itinerary

GOING to a Jubilee street party today? Here’s how to make sure it’s the perfect mix of patriotism and slagging off your neighbours.

8am: Set up and petty competitiveness

The first game of the day will be an unofficial one: who was out earliest, who is working hardest, who will receive the least thanks for the day’s festivities. The best part is that everybody loses.

10am: Quick break to slag off number five’s new extension

Stop for a cup of tea and some intense criticism of number five’s new living space, including the badly done pointing and how rude and boorish the builders were, plus speculation about whether they’ve even got planning permission for it.

12.30pm: The buffet

Sit down to eat, but not without some raised eyebrows over the shop-bought quiche. And it’s not even M&S. Her Majesty deserves better than Aldi.

12.40pm: First child escorted away

Drunk on excitement and trifle, it will all get a bit too much for one 7-year-old, who throws up on some bunting and has to be taken indoors.

1.30pm: First adult escorted away

Same as above, except instead of excitement and trifle, it will be six pints in the sun and some suggestive remarks about number 42’s new hot tub.

2.15pm: The singing of God Save The Queen

No one knows the words so it’s a mumbled dirge followed by an awkward silence, until slightly alternative Greg from The Lindens puts on the Sex Pistols’ version and starts pogoing on the drive.

2.30pm: Games and merriment (getting pissed)

The kids will hit each other over the head with bits of Giant Jenga while the adults get shitfaced on Pimms and gin. The abuse of number five’s extension becomes so overt that number five leave in a huff.

6pm: Departure

Everyone returns to their homes after heartily agreeing that this should become a monthly occasion. The instant front doors are shut each house begins their own debrief about just how despicable the neighbours are.

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