Just like the downpour of last week here – when a month’s rain fell in 24 hours – the Trumps took Paris (en fete pour le Quatorze) by storm. As the not entirely royal couple clambered hastily down the steps of Air Force Un, Melania very nearly fell over the Pesidential quiff in her haste to get at the Parisian sales offering sensational bargains along the thoroughfares of this, the soon-to-be renamed Ho Chi Macron City.
From Faubourg St Honoré to the Louvre- and back across to the Boulevarde Malesherbes – police cordoned off whole streets as the First Lady rampaged hither and thither, swinging her hand-woven Gucci hemp lasso at every cut-price outfit spotted in Hermes, Ferragamo, Zara and if course the legendary Monoprix.
Survivors of Melaniamania make their way to safety under police escort
She was eventually hosed down and recaptured by the Pompiers at 4pm, just in time to be introduced to Monsieur le President and his directrice Brigitte, the latter of whom so entranced The Donald, he told her (with exquisite decorum), “Yer know, most broads your age have skin like a ferkin crocodile, but you’re in great shape sister” to which the fragrant Brigitte responded by asking how many women had tried to grab his rug.
The foursome decided to hang out together some more, dining at the Jules Verne restaurant on a meal prepared 20,000 Leagues under the Eiffel Tower by Capitaine Alaine du Cassenemo. The dinner began with a selection of squid a la Goldman Sachs, followed by Channel Shark’s fin soup and then filet of ceolocanth served with souffléd sea urchins and giant clam spit. President Trompe later tweeted enthusiastically, asking “What yer godda do ter gedda side o’ Texas cow in this town?”
They had decided to dine together, said the Emperor Emmanuel, because “Donald wanted someone of his own age to talk to and so did I”. But later still, the two amigos agreed to work towards a post-war roadmap for Syria, they having both bombed the existing roads to shit with equal fervour in recent years.
Uniting for once in condemnation of online trolls, equally incompetent shit4brains in both the Labour and Conservative Parties yesterday agreed to demand that police forces up and down the country should “be far more aggressive in pursuing those online commentators who viciously abuse MPs” with no real basis for so doing.
The accord was issued prior to “a major debate” on politicians’ safety, for which – in the absence of any debate major or otherwise about how most of them are a waste of space, time, money and oxygen – there will be plenty of room in the timetable.
This is especially true given the equally humungous absence of any debate about State pension embezzlement, DWP Ministers who know knob-all about Waspi realities, Shadow Home Office Ministers who want to pay policemen two shillings and thruppence a decade, Brexit Ministers who want us to chuck money at Brussels in perpetuity, and Labour Human Rights spokeschairs who seem never to have heard of Greece, Cyprus, European Central Bank scams, an alcoholic EU President or Guy Ferkoffsap.
In a shock announcement tomorrow, the Prime Maysister is to announce two completely unexpected exceptions to the new rules about foul abuse. These will be first, the use of outright obscene exaggeration when debating the policies and character of MPs by other MPs within the Commons Chamber; and second, the use of racist, sexist, fattist, ageist and classist language online by MPs online about their constituents and opponents during elections.
Commenting on the eagerly awaited and universally leaked speech, Shadow Minister for Dyslexic mathematics Diaphonous Abigbot said it was “good to see the despicably divisive white bourgeois misogynists in the neofascist Tory ranks at last showing some semblance of long-overdue compassion for morbidly obese old slappers who are about as sexy as an Epstein sculpture made from squid ink and melted candle wax. Equality before the Law is crucially important, and it is especially vital that an exception should be made for exceptional achievers like me”.
The Socialist Worker later awarded her the Grand Prix du Drapeau Rouge for outstanding cognitive dissonance.
Ethically disabled former weapons expert Tony Billionair was interviewed by the Guardian yesterday, and said that a Corbyn Prime Ministership on top of Brexit “would leave Britain flat on its back”. He told the Fake Newsfinder General that “I know what it’s like to be flat on your back, because that’s where I’ve been for the last ten years – rogered by every Bank, State Dept official, Middle East dictator and Big Swinging Dick from Sharm el Sheik to Chicago in a bid to earn enough from whoring to have vastly more crony wealth than any other Labour leader in history”.
Known in happier times as ‘Limpwrist Lynton the Happy Hooker closest to Uranus’ while working in Derry Irvine’s Chambers, Mr Blurghgagurghhewie added that he had “united Britain, in a way never seen before, during three terms of permanently tumescent opportunity, and it is such a pity now that all these ghastly spin merchants are trying to pretend that to receive is a sin. To receive things up my bottom and thence into my bank account is not a sin…think of all the pleasure that came to those who gave in support of worthy causes like Saudi Arms, Iraqi shock and awe, screwing the taxpayer on Northern Rock, and letting off that poor man Anthony Lynton caught importuning in a puffta’s cottage all those years ago, whoever he might have been”.
“Even a daft old bint can drive a train for f***’s sake,” Chancellor of the Exchequer Philip Hamshank told a Cabinet meeting earlier this week, “let’s get these Waspi doormats on the job…..and then we can fire the last of the drivers hahahahahahaha”.
I understand that the Canceller’s bid to be nominated Man You’d most like to be violated by a Turkish Jailer did not go down that well with Big Mother, but other joyously bileheaded Cabinisters apparently joined in with gusto*.
“At least a woman can’t stall a train at the traffic lights,” chuckled arch gender Nazi Michael Phallus.
“…..and as they’ll never have to fit the train into a parking space, it’s a job made for daft tarts who’ve breezed through life like so many retarded molluscs,” quipped Damian ‘Deceased’ Greed.
“Well,” Leather-clad weeper Theresa Bayonet is rumoured to have riposted, “if that dozy airhead Nicky Moron can become Treasury Select Committee Chair, I suppose women must be good for something”.
SFX: Loud haw-haw-haw hilarity
*Lord Gusto is the Secretary of State for Unearned Income.