Best Nobel Peace Prize ever

THE Nobel Peace Prize has caused stroke-inducing rage from people who are an absolute joy to watch when they are angry.

The award to the European Union has caused thousands of people across Britain to mangle their index fingers as they battered their profane, impotent fury into a Daily Telegraph comment box.

Nobel committee president Thorbjoern Jagland said: “We totally forgot about the deadline and then realised we didn’t have time to read all the submissions, so we just thought ‘fuck it’.

“Causing extreme violence is not in the spirit of the peace prize, but once an absolute belter of an idea gets hold of you, there really is nothing you can do about it.”

Margaret Gerving, whose husband Geoff blames the European Charter on Human Rights for his premature ejaculation, said: “Eventually he stopped typing and just smashed his head against the keyboard as hard as he could, over and over again until he started to bleed.

“Now his speech is all slurred so I suppose I’ll have to phone NHS 24.”

Emma Bradford, whose husband Ian claims to have been the first person to compare the Common Agricultural Policy to Treblinka, said: “He’s on the roof, he’s naked apart from his Union Jack cape  and he’s shaking his fist at Jesus. But at least he’s not moping.”

Professor Henry Brubaker, of the Institute for Studies, said: “What has kept the peace in Europe for 60 years? The EU? Nuclear missiles? Our shared love of creamy milk chocolate? I suspect we will never debate it like people with brains.”

He added: “Strangely, many of the people who object to the EU getting the prize also objected to Medecins Sans Frontieres getting the prize. They were however fully supportive of the prize going to Doctors Without Borders.

“Personally, I would have awarded it to It’s a Knock-Out.”



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Guest Blog: Frank Gallagher

Everyone has been so totally and utterly amazing, sending me flowers and various other gifts for all my hard work over the past eleven series, but unfortunately all good things must come to an end.

It’ll be strange, but something of a relief to step out of Frank’s untrustworthy working class trainers and back into Frank’s safe, upper-middle class deck shoes once more. In fact, to celebrate this I’m taking a year off and spending time with my wonderful wife, Portia, in our villa over in Tuscany.

As I shave off the unruly facial hair and dispose of the cheap, white trash clothes for the last time, my mind goes back to my very first meeting with the head of Channel Four drama in the Groucho Club. I remember him telling me that he wanted a show that is ‘a celebration of working class people acting like utter fucking shitbags’. We agreed that this was a wonderful idea and extremely clever of us both.

The recent wrap party was an absolute blast. It was held in this awesome new bar complex which is housed in an amazing converted match factory. The organisers thought it would be fun if the event was themed around working class alcoholism.

So we had 500 bottles of Happy Shopper Vodka shipped in, 1500 cans of Kestrel Super stacked behind the bar and to top it all, a gigantic 600 litre bottle of White Lightning to welcome the cast and crew.

The catering was also wonderfully ironic. There were revolting cheese footballs, disgusting party food from Iceland as well as several Sarah Lee gateaux. It all tasted utterly dreadful, but we had so much fun laughing at the desperate mediocrity of it all (whilst at the same time thanking God for Waitrose).

Everyone had turned up dressed in leisure wear, and Portia even joined in by wearing an awful denim skirt and some cheap jewellery which bought her out in the most horrendous rash.

So how will people remember Frank? Will they say ‘Frank was a good bloke’? Will they say ‘Frank was the embodiment of working class Britain’? Or will they say ‘I wish there were more panel shows’.

Truth be told, I’m not really bothered what people think. I’m minted and it doesn’t end there, either. “Frank” has been signed up to do adverts for ambulance chasers, Primark and of course