The Conservative Party’s annual conference is currently taking place in Birmingham, much to the delight of political journalists and absolutely nobody else, and has once again been marred by controversy. Last year was notable for Theresa May’s coughing fit during her keynote speech, when the last of her political credibility was observed escaping from her body as fast as it possibly could. This year’s, if anything, is even more spectacular, and we have a reporter on scene to keep you informed.
Highlights follow. For convenience we have included their job titles, since nobody really has a clue what any of them do at any given moment.
Gavin Williamson (Secretary of State for Defence) has been caught on record describing Vladimir Putin as a giant poopy head, and has once again suggested Russia should shut up and go away as they don’t play by the rules and also their alphabet is stupid.
Philip Hammond (Chancellor of the Exchequer, Ebenezer Scrooge without the charming personality) attempted to burn an effigy of Boris Johnson on stage, but was unable to do so due to his Bic lighter running out of fuel. He asked the audience to imagine the effigy burning like the building in that film the Rock was in (not Doom, the other one) while he described the many benefits of Brexit including free trade deals and feudalism. Occasionally he mimed warming his hands next to the resolutely-unburned effigy. The conscious portion of the crowd went wild.
Our daring reporter managed to catch Boris Johnson (professional fence-sitter, abuser of tea) at the buffet table wolfing down an entire plate of caviar smeared on Jacob’s Crackers. He asked him the question that has been on everyone’s minds: namely how he has had so many affairs, given that he is a man with all the sex appeal of a sack of potatoes left to fester submerged in a bog for eight months, then topped off with a heap of mouldy thatch harvested from the roof of a haunted cottage.
His response was as follows: “Yeah but, er, what you don’t get is, I mean, if you just, if you, erm, come on, that’s a little, erm, can I be Prime Minister yet?”
Our reporter informs us that a pole is being set up on the stage even as he files this article. It’s to be hoped that Theresa May intends to use it to perform one of her trademark dances that will unlock the final gate of Hell, drowning us all in an endless tide of rampaging demonspawn.
We asked Jeremy Corbyn, supposed leader of the Opposition, for a comment, but he has barricaded himself in a potting shed on his allotment and is refusing to come out.