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.

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Why Bake Off is all that stands between me and full mental breakdown

by nail technician Nikki Hollis

IF I had been told, back when this started, that in September I’d be looking at another six months of this shit, I’d have choked myself to death on my own freshly-baked banana bread.

Sadly I didn’t have the foresight. And now, like everyone else, I’m facing winter without the good bits like getting twatted in a pub with an open fire and spending December being so sociable that come Christmas itself I’m on my 25th day of a hangover.

So this year, I’m giving full responsibility for my sanity to The Great British Bake Off. For the next ten weeks, that’s where I live. The rest of the world is an illusion. Only the warm, cuddly world of the tent is real.

Watching someone make a cake under modest time pressure is my battle against coronavirus. Seeing a pie crust fail to rise is my disastrous test-and-trace. A roulade that wouldn’t rise dashed in fury on the floor is my Boris Johnson.

Yes I would have preferred Sandi Toksvig, but given that we’re constantly stalked by the spectre of death and the country is a political bin fire under the part-time control of an halfwit, I’ll settle for Matt Lucas.

Until November, I’m immersing myself in gentle sugary nonsense. After that I’ll tool up and get ready for Brexit, where we’ll be clubbing each other to death in Tesco over the last loaf of bread. Like the last lockdown, but without the novelty value.

But right now all I care about is whether Paul Hollywood approves of a soufflé. I’ll go full-on howling insane after. There’ll be plenty of time.

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