Paradise Lost

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February 2017. Supreme Leader May sits upon her slithery throne, surveying the scene below her webbed feet. Steam rises from the millions of sticky, glistening eggs, freshly laid by her that morning, ready to be incubated and nurtured, waiting to hatch.

May, who revealed herself as an alien lizard overlord during the 2016 Conservative Leadership challenge, finishes feasting on the last of this morning’s batch of orphaned children’s souls. Satisfied, she throws back her scaly, fearsome head and lets out a terrifying, triumphant bellow.
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In the days that followed her revelation, May devoured any Tory who got in her way, systematically removing them with streams of incredible fire, or tearing them to pieces with her terrible, multiple claws.

Apart from one.

Gove.

The former leadership candidate was spared. But not for positive reasons. Not in any way. May singled out Gove for special treatment after observing his hideous treachery and brutal backstabbing.
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Gove’s ‘reward’ was to be psychologically tortured to breaking point, until he no longer resembled the man he once was. Now enslaved, Gove was May’s bitch. He kept the eggs moist and sticky the only way he knew how.

May enjoyed torturing Gove. He was her plaything, a toy, his entire existence now devoted to her service and his own humiliation. Once he was no longer needed, May would cut off his famous cock and send it to Sarah Vine.

Not all Tories perished. King of the Buffoons and blond bawbag, Boris Johnson escaped. Once, he was successful. Now he lived on a pig farm.

After Brexit, Boris couldn’t understand that when he kept shitting in his own bed, nobody would turn up to clean it.

Eventually, he became so accustomed to rolling in his own faeces, he joined his animal kind. He even has company at the farm…

David Cameron.
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The former PM eluded the chaos long before it started. After losing the spoiled brat, wee privileged prick, Bullingdon Club gamble-the-whole-fucking-countries-future game with Johnson, DC returned to his first love.

Pig fucking.

Now, he lies beside his favourite. A plump, pink beauty. He gazes lovingly towards her and applies more lipstick carefully around her mouth.

At the same time, Labour died.

Simply because 172 MPs thought they knew better than half a million party members, a grand old institution is no more.

“WE WANT POWER” became the bloodthirsty cry, although none of them were capable of doing any better than Jeremy Corbyn, leader at the time.

The MPs wanted a return to Labour values, which were currently being delivered by Corbyn. They also wanted their party back, which Corbyn was also doing at the time. And finally, they demanded an electable leader, not one who had been returned for over 30 years as an MP and comprehensively won a four-way leadership contest by over 60%.

Labour MPs had borrowed Michael Gove’s long knife to stab Jeremy Corbyn in the back, but in the end, they were all shit scared to actually finish the job.

Instead, they reactivated Tony Blair.

Blair was a malfunctioning war droid, built in a top secret project by the UK to seek and destroy enemies in future conflict.

However, there were many, many wires loose, and the Death Machine 2000 (to give him its proper name) escaped the secure facility. The authorities were unable to stop it. Blair smoothly blended into society, rising to power in 1997.
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Death Machine 2000 loved war. At every turn and at every opportunity, it invaded countries, fabricating truths and sexing up documents to justify his cause.

Eventually, Blair was deactivated by another top secret droid, The Clunking Fist 900.

Going by the name Gordon Brown, it was able to infiltrate and destroy Blair’s war datachip. Ironically, due to Death Machine 2000’s confusion, it now believed it could solve conflict.

But, in reality, it did absolutely fuck all, making billions of pounds for itself instead.

And now it’s back.

The Labour MPs somehow forgot how bloodthirsty Blair was. Tom Watson, Deputy Leader, located the war datachip and reinstalled it.

Chaos.

Blair is on the rampage. Refusing to work with anyone, he invades village after village, town after town, destroying everything in its path. It has been reported that every now and then, Death Machine 2000 is heard to mutter “Bush, Bush, Bush” over and over, as if it is searching for something.

Despite him being obviously awful, some people think a return to Blairism is the way forward.

Meanwhile, in Scotland, Nicola Sturgeon ponders her tactics. The only sound politician left, and the only hope we have, finds her hands frustratingly tied.
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Sturgeon is holed up in Scotland’s secret bunker (just off the B940 in Fife) with just a handful of able companions. Most of the SNP has collapsed.

The majority, led by Pete Wishart, now solely devote themselves to arguing with people online. Actually believing that everything they did was amazing, and that anyone who disagreed was a traitor to Scotland, they now sit upon inflated opinions of their own self importance, faces buried into electronic devices, tutting, spluttering, gnashing and snarling at anyone who dares talk Scotland down.

Nobody is allowed to challenge their opinion. Everyone else is an idiot. They are right, of course they are, and you hate Scotland. With grotesquely enlarged thumbs from typing, they’ve lost all sense of reality. They are now useless. Sturgeon, sensible and of sound mind, despairs.

A select, sane and rational band, remain. With Scotland’s people ready to go it alone and be a nation again, Sturgeon knows she’ll need to use all of her power.

But fighting the alien lizard overlord won’t be easy. Nor will dousing the flames left behind by Blair or the mess Labour have left.

The world needs sanity, leadership and stability. The people deserve that much. We can only hope.

It isn’t too much to ask, is it?

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