'GB News platoon reporting for duty, sah'

THE bravest and doughtiest fighters of Britain are here to fight, sah! And with platoon GB News joining battle the war is as good as won.

Let me introduce you to the lads, which I call them even though some are women because we spit in the eye of political correctness. Spit in its eye then bayonet it in the neck.

This is Sergeant Major Rees-Mogg, sah. May look wiry, a weed, a man who’s never so much as hefted a rifle in his life, like a stiff breeze would lodge him upside down in a tree, but he assures me he’s a killah.

You’ll know Brigadier Farage already. Veteran of decades of European conflict. Ol’ Leatherface they call him in Brussels, where he was an MEP for 21 years. Disembowelling the enemy from the inside out, sah.

This unconventional-looking fellow? Captain Neil Oliver, special forces. The hair, the beard, the previous employment with the BBC? Means he slips past liberal defences to skewer them with bloody hard truths. They won’t stand a chance.

No, Private Darren Grimes didn’t lie about his age to enlist. Don’t let that baby face fool you. When he’s got wokery in his sights he’ll be consumed by bloodlust. Men still have nightmares about when he tore into an Extinction Rebellion member.

Lance Corporal Holmes here, Eamonn to his theoretical friends, is our quartermaster. Keeps the lads supplied with bitterness about This Morning, and believe me we’ll never run out. Are we going up against Schofield or Willoughby? He’ll murder ’em.

And finally this is Sergeant Nana Akua. She’s our black woman. We have to have one of those or we’d be racist. We did have a gay lad as well, Wootton, but he had to be dishonourably discharged for dishonourable discharges.

Anyway, that’s the squad and we’re ready to fight. No mental health days needed here. Who are we fighting? Guardian readers? Just Stop Oil? Russia? Russia with the army? With respect sah, bollocks to that. They have guns.

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Englishman at Burns Night thought it was about dubious meat boiled in an intestine, not bloody poetry

AN English newcomer to Burns Night believed it was some sort of eating contest for offal and mushy vegetables, not an annual celebration of a national hero.

Tom Booker, whose new girlfriend Jasmine claims to be half Scottish, was shocked to find her planned dinner party involved a 200-year-old tradition of honouring gibberish poems as well as weird food. 

Booker said: “I assumed it was a night to mock the English and make them eat sheep balls, so I turned up in a fancy dress kilt and a tartan hat with ginger hair attached. Turns out it’s a serious event for a bloke they treat like Shakespeare.

“I thought the uncle giving the first toast was having a stroke. It was only when I managed to make out ‘gushing entrails’ that I knew I was getting tripe after all. But what on earth’s a skink?

“Even The Proclaimers are bearable next to recitals of Robert Burns ‘classics’. Mice and witches? They’ve got better Scottish culture they could celebrate, like Don’t You Forget About Me.”

After failing to think of a single work by an English poet when politely invited, Booker chose to watch from the sidelines while Scots downed drams and swung each other round in a primitive Gaelic peasant manner.

He added: “If anything was making spicy mince come out of both ends, it was dancing. I assumed we’d just drunkenly doze the haggis off and watch Highlander.

“Thank god for all that Talisker, because the food really was that shit.”