'No country can do pomp and ceremony for a sex predator like Britain'

IT is fashionable to disparage British traditions, but who among us does not feel a swell of pride as a magnificent Royal carriage dating back to 1902 sweeps by containing a bloated orange pussy-grabber?

Quite simply, no one does pomp and ceremony like us. What other nation could greet a sleazy reality TV groper mired in credible paedophile allegations with a guard of honour of the Household Cavalry, heroes of the Battle of Waterloo?

Or put up the president in Windsor Castle, built by William the Conquerer no less, where he can feel the warp and weft of the vast tapestry of history as he ignores new Epstein revelations suggesting he is not merely a sexual abuser but also a trafficker and nonce?

The naysayers forget that such state visits are a source of pride for every Briton. Is the RAF fly-by not a reminder of how we stood together in World War II? Though Mr Trump believes the US won it alone, as an arrogant Dunning-Kruger dickbag as well as a pervert.

Lesser countries envy the lavish white-tie banquet he will attend, the halls of gilded history echoing to his nonsense about wind turbines as guests wonder who would draw a limbless woman with suspiciously diminutive breasts as a birthday message for a pimp.

Moreover, in the world of realpolitik we have to get along with the US. Not doing so could result in arbitrary tariffs, withdrawn support for Ukraine and Trump’s acolytes stirring up race hate in the UK with ill-informed comments. Admittedly all of these things have happened, but perhaps our fine plumed white horses will stop them.

So ignore leftists who would do away with Britain’s gift for pageantry and focus on the positives: our proud history, the archaic dress uniforms of our armed forces, our many Royal residences. Let us not feel creeped out this is what Trump aspires to.

Yes, for the next two days we celebrate a predator in the grandest fashion possible. While, paradoxically, keeping Prince Andrew well out of sight.

Sign up now to get
The Daily Mash
free Headlines email – every weekday
privacy

Six places you've had a wank that women wouldn't understand

LADIES are different, but men seem to need to crack one out in the most inopportune of locations and/or circumstances. They will never satisfactorily explain why: 

At work

Not because you fancy colleagues, indeed you loathe them, but sloping off to the Gents to manhandle the suspect is both a little treat and a skive, like going to the vending machine for a Twix. Other people have fag breaks, so why shouldn’t you be entitled to a masturbatory hiatus? Women? They have that ‘needing to work twice as hard’ thing.

After she’s gone to bed

She’s upstairs watching reality shite on her phone, you’ve crashed around loading the dishwasher for an alibi. Now for a quick scan if there’s any semi-nudity on telly as an amuse-bouche before settling down to phone grot. If you went upstairs you might get sex? Yeah, but why take the chance.

At a friends’ dinner party

Over a delicious chilli beef redang you can’t help but fall, bulging eyes first, into your hostess’s inviting cleavage. This can’t go on. For the sake of the women present you pop off to pacify Percy, relieve the pressure and subsequently be capable of light conversation about various shows on various streaming services. Really, it was a self-sacrificing act.

Any long-distance train journey

It’s four hours to Leeds, your ticket cost as much as a pleasant city hotel room, and you’re bored. Why not with a quick indulgence in the world’s favourite hobby? Make sure you know how the lock button works and schedule a cursory fap on the line just outside Rugby. Oddly, women are put off by it being a train toilet.

When off sick

On the one hand you feel like death, but the other hand is cupped around your balls. The house is empty, the tissues are right there and you already feel disgusting, so your usual post-nut shame will be swallowed up. Best not mention it while grimly recounting how ill you’ve been later, though, or that you spent four hours playing Hollow Knight. 

On a plane

Come on. There’s nothing else to do but join the Mile High Club (solo division).