The things about Britain's shit trains that won't be changing, by Grant Shapps

RAIL franchises are being scrapped, but rest assured you’ll still be getting the shitehouse train service that is every Briton’s birthright. These things won’t change:

Standing up

Whether on a packed commuter train or your regular London to Doncaster, standing up for an entire journey you’ve paid the highest prices in Europe for is part of the Great British Railway Experience. Ideal for anyone suffering calf pain or frotterers.

Rip-off prices

I’ve pledged to make the ticket system less confusing by eliminating all those baffling lower prices and moving to a standard minimum fare of £40, whatever the journey. Peak-time singles will remain a jaw-dropping £279. I am cunning like a fox.

Feeble excuses

You’ll still be grinding your teeth in fury when you’re stuck for an hour in Birmingham because a driver hasn’t arrived, and you’ll still get laughable service announcements like ‘The train is delayed because earlier trains were delayed.’ Shortly followed by blanket cancellations.

Vile chicken sandwiches

The signature dish of the train journey is a disgusting chicken sandwich. Served cold and tasting largely of cold, the soggy bread is garnished with thin mayonnaise that resembles spunk, but with less flavour.

Bellend passengers

I give my word that there will be even fewer guards to deal with bellends playing music without headphones, letting some sort of pit bull wander around the carriage, or trying to chat up female passengers unfortunate enough to sit next to them.

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You're ruining this for me

DO you know how long I’ve wanted to be prime minister? My whole life. And I finally get here and what happens? You, the British people, seem determined to ruin it. 

It was going to be so great. I was going to be walking out into Parliament, firing out quips, passing bills, bamboozling the EU, effortlessly whipping Britain into a brilliant new age. They were going to call me the Golden King.

But then what happens? I’ve barely got my feet under the desk, I’ve had no more than three holidays, and you rotten bastards start coughing. And dying. And apparently it’s my job to do something about it.

Well I did. I locked down. That was bloody Churchillian. And after a rousing personal battle against the virus to show how it’s done, I opened Britain up again because I love freedom and pubs and frankly I was bored.

It was going great. The lefties were outraged I was breaking international law, the Telegraph loved me again, I wasn’t stuck in with Carrie and the sprog.

Then the f**king coughing starts up again, miserable Whitty starts in about ‘exponential growth’ and guess who’s got to play the killjoy? Muggins here.

It’s all your fault. If you’d been careful you wouldn’t have caught it. This should be the best time of my life. And instead I’m stuck listening to pricks telling me facts. I don’t like facts.

You’ve ruined this for me and I won’t forget it. And if I hear one peep of ingratitude about your hard Brexit, that’s it. You can stick your country up your arse.