Court Upholds Right To Dismantle Boris Johnson

WESTMINSTER Council have successfully applied for an injunction allowing the dismantling and removal of Boris Johnson.

Justice Griffith Williams heard Council evidence that Johnson had caused measurable damage to the capital and was improperly constructed.

The London mayor has until 4pm on Friday to remove himself and then pretend to cycle home for 500 yards before being driven away in a Bentley.

A council spokesman said: “Visitors come from across the globe to see the mother of all parliaments and it’s not helpful when they’re confronted by such a large Johnson.

“He looks like an inside-out polar bear that’s just been caught wanking.”

He added: “Nobody is denying the upper-classes their right to peacefully use their wealth and influence to run the country using all the cognitive abilities of a sofa cushion. But this Johnson has now reached the stage where he’s allowed to sign important letters without somebody taking a look at them first.”

Meanwhile  Kent has complained that Westminster has simply displaced Johnson onto its doorstep and Essex has already applied for an interim order extending their Johnson exclusion zone to Holland.

Combined legal actions across the UK could eventually lead to Johnson circling the country in a boat.

But Mayorologist Stephen Malley warned: “When you dismantle a Johnson, you run the risk of creating space for  an Abbott. It’s a bit  like dealing with an ant’s nest in your garden by unleashing a pack of wolverines.”

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Diana In Heaven

IT was Michael Jackson’s first deathday celebration day last Friday and to be honest, it was a bigger fuck-up than that time he hung the kid over the balcony – the bloke just hasn’t got a bloody clue.

For someone who found out he’d copped for a billion quid in the twelve months since he pegged it, the fucker kept a tight lid on it all as far as the budget was concerned.

He’d promised a parade where a dozen unicorns would pull him around in a platinum chariot while he tossed After Eights wrapped in edible gold leaf to everybody. What we actually got was an open-topped bus with Jacko firing tiny statues of himself made from white chocolate out of a converted machine gun.

Kenneth Williams, who still hasn’t had a poo in the 22 years he’s been up here, was last spotted furiously shoving handfuls of them up his arsehole in a bush. Odd chap.

The food at the party wasn’t much better. The menu consisted of Battenburg cake, the obligatory ‘Jesus Juice’, a bin filled with Cheerios (no milk) and mini sausages in a big bowl (above which Bernard Manning had written a sign that said ‘boys cocks’).

By the time it came to the finale – ‘Infinite Thriller’ – everyone had more or less fucked off. The idea was that he’d get every single VIP in Heaven to join in with a spectral re-creation of the Thriller video. But after three dull hours of rehearsing, almost everyone had given up and the only ones left were a shit-faced JFK and Groucho Marx, dressed as a women and dancing around with a big keg of the old Jesus Juice.

If this is Jackson’s idea of Heaven, I’m rooting for something cast-iron to come tumbling out of his closet that will send the fucker down to The Other Place ASAP…

(Oh, and by the way he did eventually tell me the truth about his death. “Diana,” he says, “like you, my heart was just too big for Planet Earth.” Fucking bellend).


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