Yesterday as ELECTION FEVER struck the nation like a sudden and unwelcome stroke, I was reminded, horrifically, that the DAILY MAIL relentlessly continues to be published.

Yes, like two bare bark woven hands coming to strangle England in the night, it continues to proliferate its papery hate throughout this green and pleasant land. Immediately, I thought of my once sacred vow to read every word printed across the malignant and cursory face of the MAIL and so with grace and speed I rose up in righteous anger, popped on down to Waitrose and bought myself a goddamn copy of the goddamn DAILY MAIL.

I picked up the first MAIL to grace mine eyes in well over a year and was swiftly knocked out by the realisation that said paper is the UK’s only proponent of CUBIST NEWS. News that looks like news from afar, but once up close it quickly becomes apparent that it’s just a collection of badly drawn cubes vaguely resembling a NEWS.

Let’s dive in!

Mail on Sunday 23.04.17


Like wearing the inside of a goat draped over a Christmas tree as a hat, fake news is all the rage right now. And never to be outdone by the information equivalent of Kanye West blinking; TRES INTERNET, the MAILY DAIL is here today to remind us that it’s been anally birthing fake news for the entirety of its sordid publishing history.

So here, printed on the front page (and pages 4-7 no less) is the “Paul Dacre Masterclass Guide To Creating Fake News For All You Millenial Bitches That were Born After Women Were Legalised”©.  

  1. Create a completely biased poll full of leading questions that promote your own political agenda.
  2. Perform said poll on a small number of actual people, but only those that almost definitely share your political viewpoint.
  3. Report on said poll as if it was a completely natural occurrence; a news turd shat out the sphincter of a fact pigeon floating past the DAILY MAIL offices that landed haphazardly on the desk of Simon Walters.

So it came to be that, completely on their own steam, with no prompting whatsoever, residents of the UK compared our prospective leaders to cars, finding unequivocally that while Theresa May was best represented as a Jaguar, Jeremy Corbyn’s most accurate vehicular avatar was that of a Reliant Robin.


Theresa May = Jaguar

Close your eyes for a moment, consider a Jaguar. Sleek, shiny, buffed, elegant, an oligarch’s wet dream, pure technological exuberance, the thing that horses hope to become when they die.

Now push that aside, consider Theresa May, Prime Minister, picture her wizened old face, the glass eye, the whisper of hair moving along her top lip, always moving, always scurrying. Now, once that image is nice and clear in your mind, instead of a neck imagine that this floating witches head is supported by four tiny wheels.

Got that image? Imagined the hell out of it?

Now tell me, honestly, does it look like a fucking Jag? Or does it look like an old hag’s head on stupid fucking wheels? It’s freakish, it’s ugly and it should be killed.


The Jaguar, a car so elitist it comes complete with an electroshock field that only targets those that earn less than 100K per annum. A car whose leather interior not only exudes exuberance but also fucking hates Europe and will gladly walk away from any shitty deal, even if that means that its wheels will be sold to rich Russians to comb their teeth with. With its shiny metallic exterior, The Jaguar is the only car on the market today that revels in the dismantling of the NHS and the privatisation of its own fucking dashboard.

Yes, when put like this it’s clear that the Jaguar is the only option for Theresa “step back pauper, you’re standing on my dick” May.

Meanwhile, we have the Robin Reliant, the everycar, an English made car for English made people. Throughout popular culture, the Reliant has been mocked, derided, and roundly shat upon, but somehow, someway, it keeps on going. An affordable car for everyone, this little “engine that could” actually did, and kept telling everyone that nuclear weapons were ridiculous, even though it meant that Andrew Marr pissed in its oil shaft. Affable, welcoming and an out and out socialist, Delboy’s vehicle of choice, famous for its three-wheeled design only becomes more and more like Jeremy Corbyn when you realise those aren’t actually wheels but labour Unions propping it up.

Fuck. I think the Mail might have actually got it right this time.

Jeremy Corbyn = Albert Steptoe

Elsewhere in this completely fair poll, Poll-ies (??) were asked which celebrities they most closely associated our potential leaders with. For Theresa May, the multiple choice answers were restricted to gray-haired old ladies filled with poise, grace and distinction. The offered choices being Helen Mirren, Margo (from To the Manor Born) and Cruella De Vil. All three, to a fault, being the wank material of choice in the MAILY DAIL offices. Old women with an air of posh and vaginas that smell like dying poor people get Quentin? Lets! standing to attention like a baby with a freakishly long arm holding a veiny apple so they are the only natural choice. The only way this could be more erotic to him would be if they were holding a swan and stuffing roast potatoes down their own gullets.

On the other side of the coin, however, Jeremy Corbyn’s chosen avatars were Albert Steptoe, Uncle Albert from only Fools & Horses and Sergent Wilson (from Dad’s Army). I barely understand who any of these people are, but Wikipedia tells me that all three are like poor versions of Jimmy Saville, Hospital key holding radiophiles that hate war but love the skirts of comatose girls. The subtext here being that Corbyn will wait until the UK is in a coma and then whisk it away in his Rolls to his mums grave to ”ll FIX IT’.


I could go on for hours talking about how these biased polls work piling example upon example upon example, but it seems the best thing to do is to follow Paul Dacre in his limping Kafka-esque footprints and create my own completely unbiased, naturally occurring super insightful poll, in order to re-balance the universe. You should find it below. Please do take the time to fill it in.


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