Muriel Sticks Predicts 2023

Yes, I realise I didn’t predict 2022,  and yes I realise we're already in March. I spent the last days of 2021 at a writer’s retreat in Montpelier, which resulted in my marvelous debut novel being conceived of. I haven’t yet gotten round to writing said novel, but the conception of the idea happened and no one can take that away from me. I let ideas gestate in my mind for a number of years before beginning to write, it’s my process, my rules. If I were to begin writing before the idea had fermented, it’d merely be an insult to my hypothetical fans, most of whom are happy to wait for the gourmet reading experience I will undoubtedly serve up with a flourish. I know some may think me arrogant that I’d treat my hypothetical fans thusly, but, what i’m trying to get across here is how little I care about pleasing my hypothetical, imaginary fans.

But, let’s get to the task at hand. Predicting what will happen for every month of 2023. I'm Muriel Sticks, and this is my moment. 

January

Rattlesnakes will be introduced to the United Kingdom by the barrelful. Some will welcome the move as a step towards diversifying the UK’s reptile population, some will claim it’s all part of a plan to aid population control. Some will attempt to befriend the rattlesnakes and create Tiktok accounts in their name. One of those accounts, named "SquamataSimp38" will become uber-famous within a week of it's creation, the rattlesnake and the account's human creator will then be invited on to This Morning, where the rattlesnake will bite Philip Schofield, giving him an aggressive form of coagulapathy or disrupted blood clotting, which he'll eventually die of. 

February

The funeral of beloved national treasure Philip Schofield will happen this month. The service will include a segment with Holly Willoughby ritually slaughtering an actor dressed as a rattlesnake. The identity of said actor will be unknown till several months later when it transpires the actor was Laurence Fox, trying to weedle his way back in to the acting profession after becoming a national cunt. 

March

Vladimir Putin will win this months Good Housekeeping Magazine's "weird celebrity crush" contest. Richard Osman will come second, leading to a rift between the two unlikely sex Gods. The US, France and the UK will arm Osman with surface-to-air missiles and Challenger tanks in order to fight back against Russian forces pushing further into Osman's territory. 

April

Elon Musk will fly into space this month in one of his SpaceX rockets. Whilst in space he'll launch a poll on Twitter asking whether he should stay in his module, or open the door to 'let some air in'. The latter option will win overwhelmingly, and Musk, a self-described 'free speech absolutist', will kill everyone on board, including himself, by opening the window. His fans back on Earth will celebrate Musk's life by continuing to be insufferable.

My ex-boyfriend Sam was a Musk superfan. I remember him telling me about a time he was shaving, gazing into the mirror, guiding the razor round his chiselled jawbones. He said men find shaving therapeutic, it allows them to stare deep into their own eyes, inspecting their soul, as their breath slowly obscures the mirror. He found it comforting, but one time he wiped the mirror clean and had a sudden attack of nerves. He looked at himself as a man and thought "how can I match up to Elon? I'm nothing, i'm worthless compared to him, look at me. Look at this skin, this awful face!" Then he'd start to shave faster, not caring about the cuts to his chin, his upper lip, his jawbone, he shaved and cut and shaved and cut, till his face was caked with blood. He let out an anguished, quiet howl of terror, like a bereaved mime. He hated himself, his horrible, worthless face. Not a face Elon would dare look at. It was a shame as well, it was little Percy's birthday party downstairs, Sam's nephew, there were Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle balloons and banners all set up, and now Sam would ruin it all with his bloody, lacerated, unshaven face. His shame had ruined little Percy's big day. This is what Musk does to men.

May

The coronation of King Charles III will end in bloodshed. Archbishop of Canterbury Justin Welby will place the crown on Charles' head, Prince Harry will ride in on his trusty steed, smack Welby on the back with a steel chair, take the crown from his father's head and urinate in it. The urination will take a while as Harry will find it hard to go with onlooking strangers, chancellor of the exchequer Jeremy Hunt will attempt to help the Prince by whispering things in his ear related to water. "Gushing waterfalls, sitting beside a meadow watching the coots, surfing a wave on Santa Monica beach, ejaculating into a waste-paper basket in a Las Vegas hotel room". 

After an hour of frenzy and fisticuffs, Westminster Abbey will suddenly come to a halt when Queen Elizabeth II walks in to the theme tune of D-Generation X, takes a seat on the throne and says to the Archbishop, "crown me". The pay-per-view then fades to black with the image of Elizabeth back on the throne, Charles looking dejected and Harry shaking his tip. 

Also, Boris Johnson will make a comeback as Britain's prime minister this month after the Conservative Party are decimated in the local elections. Johnson will celebrate winning back his old job by posing nude for the ConservativeHome website holding a face mask over his todger. 

Keir Starmer, jealous at the gushing attention Johnson will get from female conservative voters, will do the same on the front cover of The Guardian Weekly, with the Labour Party's 2017 manifesto covering his 'Assembly of Nations and Regions'. 

June

Kate Bush will release a surprise new album in June. '5000 words for Blow", a largely avant-garde album, will feature Bush list 5000 different names for cocaine, taking a hit of the white stuff herself after uttering each name. By the 20th name, Bush will be so fucked up, she'll be twirling, twisting, gyrating, her eyes wide open and manic, all the stuff her fans love to see. I used to be a massive Kate fan, I wrote her numerous letters, though the cretin never replied. Admittedly, all of those letters were about David Bowie, my soul-mate, whom I thought Kate might know and be able to introduce me to, but alas, she proved herself to be of no use to Muriel Sticks. So I won't pay much attention to this new album. 

July

July will see the learned county of Oxfordshire trial a new ‘purge’ day, where residents will, by law, be allowed to be absolutely lovely to one another for a day. The purge will last from 7am to 10pm. The Lord Mayor of Oxford will toll a bell in the morning, declaring the purge active. The authorities will hope this day of purgation will act as a sort of communal therapy, where people can de-stress and socialise, be the neighbours they always say they should be, go to that coffee morning at the local Catholic church they always put off, mow the elderly Mrs Bramble’s lawn and water her Sweet Williams, perhaps visit the local Mosque and apologise for 40 years of the Daily Mail being your paper of choice. When the bell tolls at 10pm, the day of pleasant purgation will come to an end, the streets will be lined with tables, party hats, balloons and paper plates left from numerous street parties across the county, the parks will be immaculate from the litter-picking brigade of men and women, old and young, a miasma of kindness and good will fills the air, the good people of Oxfordshire will be ready for another year of being absolute stuck-up cunts to one another. 

August

Remote-viewing will become available on the NHS in August. Described on Wikipedia as ‘seeking impressions about a distant or unseen subject, purportedly sensing with the mind’, the government will claim it’s an opportunity for the British people to spy on each other, creating a surveillance state without the need for cameras, police officers or trained spooks. The move will backfire when Iris from Suffolk chooses to remote view home secretary Suella Braverman participating in demonic rituals. Far-right conspiracy theorists will welcome the news. 

September

Chelsea owner Todd Boehly will attempt to sign NFL star Tom Brady this month. After the club's combined £1b spending spree, including Summer 2023 where they signed Neymar, Kylian Mbappe, Ronaldinho and Dixie Dean, Boehly will be eager to add a 'marquee signing' to the Chelsea ranks. Brady will initially favour the move, but his head will be turned by an offer from the Kingdom of Brunei to become their official yoghurt spokesperson. 

October

President Joe Biden will die this month whilst filming a 'Hot Ones' interview on YouTube. The 82-year old president will make it through 5 different hot sauces, but will start to turn beet-red and complain about chest pains whilst sampling 'Da' Bomb Ghost Pepper Sauce'. Kamala Harris will take the oath of office and become America's first female president, with her first act of office to outlaw all hot sauce, thus causing a new American prohibition era. President-in-exile Donald Trump will try to show his manliness by broadcasting himself tasting the same hot sauce that Biden failed to conquer, but will also fail and die in agony. 

November

The actor Tom Hiddleston will star in an avant-garde, experimental theatre show in London this month where the audience, for £50, will be able to lick the actor and extract DNA samples using mouth swabs. Hiddleston, in an interview, will claim the show is meant to satirise celebrity culture and the ever-narrowing chasm between private and public life. The Guardian's theatre critic Michael Billington will attend the show and will surreptitiously leave the venue laughing maniacally, holding large boxes full of Hiddle-samples. 

December

Canada Geese will take over the World in December. All shall kneel before them. 

NNNN’s Royal Correspondent Lurpac De Moine Previews the King’s Speech

Our late Queen always found the Christmas speech business a little tiresome, or at least that’s what her Lady-in-Waiting’s second cousin’s hairdresser’s neighbour’s plumber told me. Being a royal correspondent, i’m lucky enough to be ‘in the circle’ so to speak, not to brag. 

Her Majesty was never a performer, never one to pretend to be something she was not. In fact, she detested the Channel 4 show ‘Naked Attraction’ for this very reason, she didn’t like the idea of getting to know people in installments, she wanted to greet people eye to eye, to really get the measure of the man.

So filming her yearly message was always over rather quickly, she opted for as few takes as possible. In 44 of her speeches she did it all in one take! Not even Brando could’ve done that, although there were plans for him to replace Her Majesty in 1992 when she was feeling unwell, though they were scrapped and she did the speech anyway. Her ‘Annus Horribilis’ line was inspired by Brando’s ‘the horror’ speech in Apocalypse Now! Bet you didn’t know that little tidbit!

But Her Majesty is with us no more. For the first time in 70 years, we have a new monarch, King Charles III. In another life, perhaps Charles would’ve become an actor. He certainly dabbled in it at university, and is an ardent Shakespeare enthusiast. So speaking to the nation for the first time should, one suspects, be an occasion the new King relishes. 

I’ve already been hearing reports that Charles tried to enlist the help of playwright Jez Butterworth (of ‘Jerusalem’ fame) to help give the speech some ‘oomph’. When Butterworth declined, he turned to Phoebe Waller-Bridge (of ‘Fleabag’ fame), but she too declined as she was too busy polishing up the script for the new Hugh Hefner biopic. 

I did hear a rumour that he wanted to perform an interpretive dance to accompany the speech, and tried to enlist the help of theatre company Frantic Assembly. They too declined, so he attempted to choreograph the dance himself, leaving him with a broken collar bone. This is all hearsay, my readers, but, from what I personally know about His Majesty, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it were true. 

Another rumour was swirling around the royal forums recently claiming that Camilla will be beside him for the speech. Whether this is for emotional support, we don't know. It's possible Her Royal Highness will act as a metaphorical 'gun to the head' for Charles. Perhaps he performs better under pressure. One close associate described Camilla's company as feeling "strained, like having a .44 Magnum aimed at your temple", another went even further by claiming it feels like a bullet has actually been fired at your head, leaving you to "scramble around looking for pieces of your frontal lobe strewn all over the floor".

I did once hear an anecdote about a young horse girl being introduced to the then Duchess of Cornwall at an equestrian event. She'd won first prize for her age group, and was seen as a future Olympian, but after meeting the Duchess she slowly spiraled into a deep chasm of depression and started to loathe anything equine-related. It seems the Duchess had somehow, within a 5-minute meeting, sucked the joy out of horses and that had left a considerable vacuum in the girl's life. It did get better for her though, thank goodness! The Duchess, that is, not the girl, the girl died. She was found lying unconscious in her room with pictures of Camilla's head with her eyes cut out transposed onto a horse's body. No one's ever figured out what that all meant, but I for one wouldn't touch it with a barge pole, leave it to the armchair psychologists. But the Duchess went on to become Queen Consort and, in my very humble opinion, is doing a most excellent job!

I did have a quick word with the News, News, News, News editor who gave me permission to publish this alleged draft version of Charles' Christmas Day address that was leaked to me by an anonymous source known only to me as "Huw". It reads:

"This year has been a year like no other. 'Change' is perhaps a fitting word to describe 2022. Change has engulfed our way of life like a nanny engulfs one and smacks one on the bottom for saying a naughty word like 'damn' or 'nitwit'. Change has engulfed our lives like Dorothy Tutin engulfed the stage as Rosalind in As You Like It at the Royal Shakespeare Company in 1967. Change has engulfed our lives like a particularly delicious white Stilton gold engulfs your taste buds at an afternoon cheese-tasting on a village green in the Cotswolds. 

One of the many things my Mother taught me was to embrace change. She taught me that one's principles should remain unwavering, even if everything around you is changing at a pace which seems terrifying. She taught me to value humility, kindness, courage and conviction. She taught me to listen to others and to value each and every person one encounters, even if that person is ugly, like, objectively ugly, like, so ugly that even my late wife Diana would say "fuck this, i'm out! Would someone please cut the brakes on my car? I just can't. I just can't!"

I wholeheartedly believe my late Mother's lessons will remain important for many years to come. She devoted her entire life to serving her country with quiet dignity and hard-work. She alone determined her own fate, and never benefited from a friendly right-wing tabloid culture which carefully sculpted our family's favourable image over many decades. 

My mother believed in cooperation, communication and honesty. She believed in decency in politics, and that is why, in 70 years of British life under Queen Elizabeth, there was no political disagreement whatsoe'er. She believed in cooperation between faiths, and that is why, in the 70 years she inhabited the throne, all religions in our United Kingdom were able to live in harmony together, Protestants, Catholics, Quakers and all the other ones with funny Elephant Gods." 

As your new monarch, I intend to continue my mother's legacy as best I can. I will continue to swallow up public money, I will continue to support the Saudi Arabian regime, I will continue to enable our tabloid culture to pick apart my daughter-in-law like vultures, I will continue to deliver bland, uninspiring messages on Christmas Day each year, and I will continue to tell fairy-tales to myself about how much you all love me and my wife. 

I wish you all a very happy Christmas. 

Now, this is only rumoured to be his speech, I have no idea how much of the leak is true, and perhaps once this article is published and the internet explodes, His Majesty will alter his speech. But you heard it on NNNN first. What an advertisement this is for the great journalistic work that NNNN carries out day to day. Quite frankly I feel honoured to write for this paper. Join me in 2023 to keep up to date with all the Royal shithousery and hijinks that goes on behind palace walls! 

Dear Eileen: My Husband is Underwhelming in Bed, Should I Attempt to Galvanise his Testicles by Hooking Them up to a Car Battery?

My name is (Fmr) Sister Eileen Kirkup, I am 76 years old and I am a lapsed nun. My hobbies include baking, knitting and sprucing.

This weeks question comes from Tabitha in Muswell Hill, she asks, "Dear Eileen, my husband is underwhelming in bed, should I attempt to galvanise his testicles by hooking them up to a car battery?"

My Child,

Oh, good heavens! No sex, please! I'm a nun, and i'm British! 

I'm just joking with you, my child, I welcome all kinds of questions from my readers, no matter the subject matter! I may be a former nun, but i'm no prude, and no stranger to the crude, and neither is News, News, News, News. Other agony aunts tend to be more reserved, but I like to think NNNN hired me to subvert those expectations in a way. I view myself as a harpsichord among pianos, so to speak, I appear at first to look like a normal agony aunt, but when one attempts to get a tune out of me, one is shocked to hear such an offbeat sound! Besides, I'm actually a very big fan of Banksy, I have some t-shirts with his art, i'm a bit of a rebel, really!

Now, to answer your question/query, I first must tell you of how I became aware of 'such matters' when I was younger. A lot of us first hear about it from friends, or in sexual education class, but my experience was quite different. As you would've probably guessed, my parents were people of faith, deeply respected in their community and in their church. My father, Claus, was instrumental in raising money for the church when an oak tree smashed through the William Morris stained-glass windows in the great storm of 1963. Not only did he stage several wondrous one-man productions of medieval miracle plays, he also memorised the entire Old Testament and walked from Land's End to John O' Groats reciting it, egged on by a loyal crowd of supporters in every village, town, borough and city he passed through. My old man caught pneumonia, sprained his ankle, got bitten by a grass snake and was harassed by a group of rambling Jehovah's witnesses who were also taking the same route. But none of this fazed him, he completed the journey, raised more than enough money to restore the windows, and was even rewarded with a place on the stained-glass window near Saint Paul. 

My mother had the same community-driven spirit, she was also quite the inventor! She invented the organ pipe cleaner which is still used in parishes around the country to this day! The times were changing in the mid-1950s and child welfare laws prohibited small children from climbing into the pipes as this was seen as a risk to their respiratory health, and many people didn't believe their existence was physically possible in the first place, so my dear mother managed to convert an old curtain rail into a large pipe cleaner by wrapping it in llama fur. Sourcing the llamas was not as big a problem as you may have thought. Every year, their village celebrated Whitsun by tying six llamas to a maypole and watching them shuffle round. The first llama to stop and sit down would be the ‘chosen one’, they’d untie it, give it a throne and a sceptre, and if it grunted at an anyone, the unfortunate villager would be slaughtered and fed to the llama. They don’t put the ceremony on anymore, my child, I think it was Thatcher who put an end to it, the killjoy that she was.

Well, one wintry afternoon we were snowed in to our little cottage on the edge of the village. Completely barricaded by snow! I remember my father stooping beside the fireplace, praying for the snow to melt, whilst my mother was busy strapping an old iron to a piece of rope and lowering it onto the snow, hoping it would act as a melting device. Unfortunately it had little to no effect and this greatly dismayed my mother, as she always seemed to prevail against the odds, no matter how hard things got. Clearly mighty mother nature was a step too far even for her. I remember her cussing and swearing about the house, which quite aggravated my father, who was busy trying to figure out what sins he could’ve committed for God to create such misery. He went through a long list of misdemeanors like having a second serving of pudding last Wednesday, accidentally standing on Mrs Prufrock’s lawn after leaving Church, sending his daughter to Catholic school etc.

They then proceeded to have an almighty screaming match for the next 27 minutes and 35 seconds. I evacuated to my special hiding place in the room at the top of the house, behind father's bookshelf filled with dusty, leather-bound bibles. I never did peruse through them, though I did once attempt to open one up but was cruelly bitten by a bug sitting on the frontispiece on Jesus' face. I think it's safe to say, my child, that you won't encounter a speck of dust in my house now. 

When I pressed my ear to the floor to listen for more commotion downstairs I heard only silence, though a deafening one. Making the trek downstairs always felt like walking through a forest near Chernobyl after the reactor exploded, thick, British, repressed, middle-class marital-anger choking you up, rotting your insides, although I think I turned out OK, my child!

I couldn't find Mother or Father anywhere in the house. Usually mother would take a post-screaming match walk down to see the sheep at the bottom of the village, and father would just sleep. I realised I hadn't checked their room, so when I did, I opened the door slowly, peeked my head around, and.. well, my child, they were engaging in what my young mind could only fathom as 'procreation-adjacent Human Play-Doh'. 

I never mentioned it to either of them, one wouldn't. Looking back I do wonder why these conjugal endings to their screaming matches didn't stop the screaming matches happening in the first place, in fact, if anything they became more violent, sharp, biting and vicious. Perhaps the ferocity of their rows directly correlated with their increased mutual enjoyment of love-making, but I really don't know, and, I can't stress this enough, my child, I don't want to think about any of it. So, if you don't mind, I won't offer my opinion with regards to your Husband and whether you should harness an electrical current to stimulate his genitalia. 

I wish you a very merry Christmas!

Yours, 

Eileen

Sir Keir Starmer Denies Allegations of Him Being an Arsenal Fan

Labour leader Sir Keir Starmer has today rubbished the allegations of him being a supporter of football club Arsenal F.C. The allegations, which first surfaced as part of a eight month-long Guardian investigation, have sent shock waves throughout the political establishment, with some calling for the leader of the opposition to resign, or be killed with a mace. 

The tax payer-funded investigation released it's findings on Wednesday evening after Prime Minister's Questions to avoid accusations of political bias in the timing of the release. Mr Starmer's constituency office, his house and his Mondeo were immediately targeted by protesters demanding a response from a man considered a 'prime minister in waiting'. The Labour leader, who's held the position since 2020, was quickly escorted, along with his family, to a safe house located in the village of Langwathby in Cumbria, next to the chicken processing factory. 

Justice Secretary Demonic Wrath has called the allegations 'putrid and sadistic', and 'beyond the realms of any decent person's wildest imagination'. Culture secretary and former I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! contestant Nadine Dorries described hearing the news as 'like being hit by nunchuks in a darkened crypt'. 

Prime minister Boris Johnson, currently in Rwanda for the Commonwealth Heads of Government meeting, announced in a press conference his intention to enforce a long-overdue police crackdown on Arsenal fans. Home secretary Priti Patel, currently in Transylvania on a confidential trip, was optimistic about a new law being passed within days. All 650 Members of Parliament have publicly announced they'll vote for the new laws to pass, even reformed Arsenal fan and former Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn, who critics believe is just trying to make peace with God and repent his past sins as an Arsenal supporter.

Mr Starmer's statement, which was communicated via motion capture by the actor Andy Serkis outside the Old Bailey, reads: 

"These allegations are blatantly untrue and clearly politically-motivated. I have never, and will never support Arsenal Football Club, and have never associated with anyone who does. I intend to fight these allegations in the only way I know how, cautiously, meticulously and with contained, blandly-delivered oratory."

Following Mr Starmer's statement, the Guardian released photographs of the Labour leader in an Arsenal shirt, along with past quotes referencing his love of Arsenal. A spokesperson for Mr Starmer doubted the authenticity of the photos and claimed Mr Starmer was joking when he made those comments. 

"Those comments were clearly intended as a joke. This is a terrifying indictment of the failing standards of British comedy of the last 30 years. Our national sense of humour has seemingly been dumbed down to such a degree that Mrs. Brown's Boys is now a sitcom considered a national institution. Whatever happened to Monty Python, Not the Nine O' Clock News, The Frost Report, Beyond the Fringe, The Day Today, Brass Eye, A Bit of Fry and Laurie, Bruiser, Smack the Pony, The Fast Show, Big Train, Ruddy Hell! It's Harry and Paul, Alas Smith and Jones, The Armando Iannucci Show, French and Saunders, The Smell of Reeves and Mortimer, The Armstrong & Miller Show, The Mighty Boosh, Not Only... But Also, This Morning With Richard, Not Judy and Fist of Fun?"

Arsenal Football Club, when asked for comment, welcomed the news and called Keir Starmer 'a shining, glistening light in these dark times of cancel culture and political correctness'. Manager Mikel Arteta reportedly rang Mr Starmer to offer his support. GCHQ are alleged to have been listening into the call, which was leaked to the Daily Star earlier today. The transcript of the call reads:

Mikel Arteta (MA): Comrade Starmer! Ah, my friend, I congratulate you on your balls.

Keir Starmer (KS): My balls?

MA: Yes, comrade! Your balls, your big, big balls. Your big, brave guts to speak out and give us your support!

KS: Oh, yes, of course, yes, thank you, Mr Arteta, to be frank with you, it wasn't meant to come out this way. 

MA: How do you mean, comrade? 

KS: Well, it was meant to be secret, I hoped for it to remain that way for at least 120 years, or at least until society is more tolerant and accepting, and this is no longer seen as such a stigma.

MA: Stigma? No, no, my friend, you are a lion! You have done something which will ripple down the generations, see? Because of you, children all over the world will not have to live in fear of being shunned for their footballing affiliations. No longer will men be put in stocks, no longer will women have to fear the scold's bridal. No longer will Piers Morgan have to repress his mediocre white male rage and live in shame for supporting our club. Because of you, my friend, Piers Morgan will experience a long and protracted emotional ejaculation the likes of which have never been experienced before. And for that, I thank you.

KS: Well, goodness, thank you, Mikel. I, I didn't consider the consequences of what my speaking out could achieve. I guess I was so hung up on presenting myself as an electorally-viable, centrist, milque-toast, dull-as-dishwater alternative to the chaos of the Johnson government, I didn't realise telling the truth and being myself could have such far-reaching consequences. 

MA: It's alright, comrade, I know the pressures of being a leader. Every day I have The Queen in my ear, suggesting I give Eddie Nketiah a chance to lead the front line, or bring William Saliba back from his loan spell at Marseille to strengthen our defence, it's insufferable. One cannot always be a people-pleaser, but one must persist, one must fight on and never surrender. Never! Never! Never!

KS: The Queen? The Queen is an Arsenal fan? 

MA: Oh yes! The biggest. Imagine if that came out, comrade? It'd be anarchy in the streets.

KS: Christ above.

MA: Anyway, comrade, I need to resume contract talks with Gabriel Jesus, he wants us to insert a clause where he's allowed free trips to the British Museum and the V&A. We're trying to tell him they're free of charge, but he's so stubborn. 

KS: Okay, Mr Arteta, listen, thank you so much for your call, you are a beacon of strength for us Arsenal supporters, a warrior, you go girl!

(Hangs up)

The news that the Queen is also an Arsenal fan was quickly drowned out by a slew of gaudy, sensationalist headlines about Meghan, Duchess of Sussex like "MEGHAN IS BAD! MEGHAN IS BAD! DON'T PAY ATTENTION TO THE RECENT NEWS THAT THE QUEEN IS A DIRTY, ROTTEN ARSENAL FAN! MEGHAN IS BAD, MEGHAN IS BAD. SHE KILLS KITTENS! MEGHAN IS BAD!"

the Labour Party have announced a leadership contest is imminent. Shadow Health Secretary and Wetherspoons barman who always IDs regulars Wes Streeting is considered the front-runner. 

News, News, News, News, Words, Words, Words, Words with Lexicographer Volumnia Clifford-Bayonet

That's right, my erudite little elves! News, News, News, News now has an official lexicographer! The search was long and tiresome, but they finally found someone with at least two GCSEs and at least a basic ability to string a sentences togethers. One of my many linguistic passions is delving into the rich history of the English language to find novel and extinct phrases where the origins of said phrase is hotly-disputed. Most of the these phrases would have been used everyday by normal, working people of centuries past, it really brings home how ephemeral and fleeting our language is. We must grasp it like an apple hanging from a tree by a dangerous and frosty ravine in the Swiss Alps. Once we've set sail on our journey of linguistic discovery, we won't regret taking the leap. So join me, my insatiable wordlets, let's leap into the unknown! I'm Volumnia Clifford-Bayonet and this is my column and no one else's.

Bishop's handwriting

When one writes in an overly ecclesiastical and spiritually verbose way. e.g. "You better watch yourself, Seamus, don't get all high and mighty there with your Bishop's handwriting, Reverend Prunethorne will give you a right seeing to."

This may have originated in the 18th century when undercover Jacobites used to steal sermons being prepared by vicars and amend the wording to include concealed blasphemies. Stories tell of vicars unknowingly preaching about giving women and working class people the vote, abolishing public executions, allowing the publishing of erotic literature, and cancelling HS2 and compensating all the families affected. 

Pricking the Nobleman's Coffers With One's Stick

When one is overly sycophantic around a gentleman of high-standing. e.g. "You better watch yourself,  Mary Beth, you'll get a nasty clip round the ear if he thinks you're pricking the nobleman's coffers with one's stick!"

This is believed to have originated in the Edwardian era when servants used ask their employers for better pay and working conditions. The Times of London managed to dissuade the employers from displaying kindness and indulging the staff by coining this phrase, thereby saving the aristocracy a tuppence or two. 

Riding One's Whippet Round the Maypole

When one is spoiling the fun for the other children by ruining the playing equipment. e.g. "You better watch yourself, Roscoe, you don't want the other parents to think you're riding your whippet round the maypole"

The consensus among us lexicographers (we don't often find consensus, Susie Dent once mailed me a horse's head with the words "Your sesquipedalian loquaciousness is impermeable proof of your intrinsic ingordigiousness" branded on it's face.) is that this phrase clearly originated in the Victorian era. Interestingly the origin of the phrase 'dancing around the maypole' is thought to have a rather disturbing backstory. Men in 16th century London were tied to ropes surrounding a maypole situated in the House of Commons, ploughed with mead and made to run round in circles for 5 hours before being released and made to perform for the MPs' pleasure, stumbling about in a dizzy, drunken stupor as the landed gentry scoffed and jeered at them. This is thought to be why MPs to this day laugh and make loud, wailing sounds whilst debating policies which affect poor people. 

Flirting With the Buoys 

When one veers too far out to sea on an inflatable dinghy. e.g. "You better watch yourself, Consuela, don't let me catch you flirting with the buoys."

The first record of someone using this term is thought to be in 1890s Whitby, England. Grizzly old bearded fishermen would warn the children playing on the beaches to avoid 'flirting with the buoys', meaning to not swim out too far. Some believe it also meant to avoid love-making whilst at sea, for fear of sea-sickness. During the 1890s in particular there were a large number of offshore gay communities operating outside the purview of the law. This theory was once portrayed in a now lost 1955 BBC sitcom 'The Sailor Went to Sea, Sea, Sea, to See Who He Could Sodomise". This was the 1950s, remember, homosexuality was still illegal and it's believed this sitcom was commissioned by the Conservative government of the time as anti-gay propaganda. 

Incinerating the Groom's Nunchuks 

When one conspires with one's groom's parents to persuade him not to go on a night out. e.g. "You better watch yourself, Maximilian, she may be incinerating the groom's nunchuks as we speak". 

A lexicographer friend of mine suggested this term originated during the 80s when English football fans were particularly troublesome when traveling abroad. Wives would start to shred their plane tickets to avoid paying for bail every time their husbands got thrown into a Greek prison cell. 

Eating Spam With Mr Anderson

When one's mother warns you not to become like her weird, survivalist, conspiracy theorist brother who lives in an air-raid shelter. e.g. "You better watch yourself, Kenneth, you don't want to end up like ol' Graham out there, eating spam with Mr Anderson."

It's not known whether this became a saying during or after the second world war, but it first became widely popularised on the 1954 BBC sitcom 'Keep the Home Friars Burning', about a group of mischievous friars shining torches in the streets during blackouts and being the bane of the town. No taping of the sitcom survives. 

Placing One's Head in Mr Peterson's Nards

When one discovers a new faux-intellectual YouTuber and becomes insufferable around the dinner table talking about him. e.g. "You better watch yourself, Ethan, it's beginning to look like you're placing your head in Mr Peterson's Nards." 

Not entirely sure of the origin of this one, though it was possibly a phrase used by the Bloomsbury Group of the early 20th century. 

Merriam-Webster Option Rights to Name All Future Generations

Are you from the 'Golden Generation'? Perhaps you belong to 'Generation X', or perhaps you're so old, you belong to the 'Silent Generation'. These are just a few examples of how different generations have been classified and colloquialized over the years by historians and lay people alike. They've become a source of fierce debate, usually pertaining to their boundaries and who belongs with what generation. Spaghetti has been lobbed across tables by 'Baby Boomers' claiming to belong to 'Generation X', or 'Silencers' claiming to be 'Goldies'. Both 'Millennials' and 'Zoomers' have been scorned by your "red-pilled" right-wing mother-in-law for being too 'woke', as have 'Baby Boomers' for being out of touch. 

It's a useful, yet ultimately superficial way of classifying different generations. Human beings can no longer fight each other with lances, spears and swords, so we require petty and generalized labels to do the necessary jabbing for us. They aren't merely words, they're weapons, symbols, potent pieces of language used to prod and degrade a person, or an entire people, to reduce them to a 'meme' or to highlight their inferiority compared to one's own generation. 

Merriam-Webster don't agree with this definition, however. They've optioned the rights to name all future generations beyond the 'Alpha Generation', believed to be those born after 2012. All future generations' names will be released every 20 years or so, and will be decided by a committee of marketing executives and 'influencers' who are in touch with prevailing generational vibes. 

Corrie Fayver, Assistant Vice President of Public Naming and Societal Categorization, has described the move as 'necessary to encourage a shared sense of being in our society'. What she means by this is still uncertain, though she went on to say:

"If we just let the masses decide how generations are categorized, they'll get it wrong, as they always do. By entrusting this task to a committee of engaged and innovative marketing executives and influencers, we ensure that tabloids and 'top 10' columns will be able to neatly divide their audiences into different groups, allowing the tabloids to generate income by manufacturing conflict between said generations and the 'top 10' columns to suggest trends to a hyper-specific audience."

Some have called the move 'cynical and quasi-fascistic', though Fayver rejects such terms. "That's such a Millennial thing to say! Calling everything fascism. See what I did there? I was able to use an instantly recognizable term to emphasize my point and win the argument! It's so convenient! We no longer need to be capable of empathy or compassion, or even patience to debate things and learn about other people! It's all pointless and cumbersome. Use these terms instead and kill em' dead! It's the only way. It is, after all, best for business".

Fayver then disappeared in a cloud of green smoke, which then turned into Piers Morgan's grinning face. 

This news comes after it emerged Rupert Murdoch has copyrighted the terms 'woke', 'snowflake' and 'cancel culture' and will continue to use the terms until their potency wears out. He'll then create new terms, again via a committee, but this time comprised of right-wing talk show hosts, politicians, Daily Telegraph journalists and your right-wing mother-in-law. Who knows what said terms could be? BetVictor have 'Ronas' at 4/1, which is believed to be those born after the Coronavirus pandemic of 2020, and 'Burners' at 6/1, believed to be those born after the planet has succumbed to global warming. 

NNNN’s Royal Correspondent Lurpac De Moine’s Guide to The Queen’s Platinum Jubilee Celebrations

As the official News, News, News, News royal correspondent, a role i've undertook since the departure of Hortensia Napkin-Breeding in 2015, one of my many duties has been to prepare for this very week. I say 'undertook', 'inhabited' may be a more appropriate word, I've been afflicted with many a sleepless night during these past seven years lying awake thinking about the enormity of this task. I even missed the pandemic, flew right past me, In fact on March 23rd 2020, the day the United Kingdom entered it's first lockdown, I was immersed in a tense interaction over Skype with a Thai gentleman who claimed to know what cutlery the Duchess of Cornwall prefers. Such royal tidbits are like caviar and small wheat crackers to a monarchy buff like me, I seek them out like a shark-moth mutant seeks out an underwater light-bulb stained with the blood of a careless swimmer. 

Her Majesty The Queen, our national figurehead, our conscience, the jewel of England and all the other nations, will be celebrating 70 years on the throne, or to put it another way, 70 years since she heard her Dad died whilst she sat in a Kenyan tree house.

This is a very brief summary of the activities going on this weekend, so, fellow loyal subjects, strap on!

Lucy Worsley Royal Cosplay Pageant, Hyde Park, Saturday 4pm

This event is not, as one might initially think, an event where attendants dress as the delightful BBC host and curator of Historic Royal Palaces Lucy Worsley, though I, along with many other middle-class repressed dads, would attend such an event. No, this wonderful idea was conceived by Miss Worsley herself as a way of celebrating the fashion of the royals over these past 70 glorious years. Children and adults of all ages will be shown to a large fenced area with a large mound of genuine royal clothes lying within. Mirrors will surround the area and members of the public will hear a countdown, after which they must scour the enormous pile of clothes donated by the royals and attempt to find a matching costume. For example, one must not be content with Princess Margaret's stockings, Queen Mary of Teck's dress and Prince Michael of Kent's cuff-links. They must be matching pairs, matching pairs, I say! Good lord, I hope this goes down without a hitch, we'd do well to avoid a Hunger Games-style cut-throat kerfuffle amidst all this bad press surrounding the royals. 

80 members of the public at a time will be allowed in the fenced area.. they'll all be asked to strip to their bare essentials ready to jump in and find matching pairs of clothing. When a lucky member has found and clothed themselves with a matching pair, Lucy herself will inspect them, and if they're found to have won, they win the entire pile of the public's clothing. 

Oh, darling Lucy, this is a wonderful idea, and I would love to swing-by, as they say, and witness all the fun, but I myself will be at another event. 

Gyles Brandreth Teaches Naughty Men How to Talk Properly, Hampton Court Palace, Sunday 9pm

Oh, darling Gyles, what a splendid idea! 

Taking place in the cellars of the gorgeous Hampton Court Palace after nightfall, broadcaster Gyles Brandreth will gather together a horde of illiterate and scruffy-looking petty criminals and teach them how to speak the Queen's English. He'll carry a birch cane to beat the sorry little reprobates into compliance, and, one hopes, will instill in them an unquenchable thirst for the English language. If any prisoner dare lash out or start sulking, Gyles will force them to eat a copy of his book 'Have You Eaten Grandma?'

The entire proceedings will be live-streamed to the YouTube and a live chat will be set up where users will, for a small donation, be able to suggest phrases, idioms, sayings or proverbs for the young vagabonds to get their tongue around. If the thick scumbags are unable to properly pronounce said phrase, idiom, saying or proverb, the user will be free to suggest a fitting punishment for Gyles to enforce. 

I've spoken to dear Gyles and he is positively frothing at the mouth with excitement! I too look forward to seeing some low-life cokeheads learn some manners. I and a few VIP guests will be watching behind a three way mirror, slowly sipping our tea and raising our eyebrows at the linguistic primitiveness of these depraved young jailbirds.

Prince William Scalp Garden Challenge for Male Pattern Baldness, Chelsea, Saturday, 2pm

Alongside Wayne Rooney, Ralph Fiennes and Michael Fabricant, Prince William, Duke of Cambridge is the most prominent public figure who suffers from male pattern baldness. To raise money for 'Finding Your Roots' a Sussex-based charity, the Duke will host a gardening challenge in Chelsea whereby a contestant will frantically run round a giant flower bed meant to represent the Duke's scalp and attempt to plant synthetic flowers. He/she wins when the entire scalp is covered, sounds easy, right? Wrong! Their rival contestant will simultaneously be answering royalty-themed quiz questions from Ben Shephard, every question they get correct means two flowers are plucked from the ground, thus making the first contestants job that little bit harder. 

It'll all be a great deal of rollicking fun and it's all done for such a good cause. The contest will be followed by an emotional plea by William, asking for donations. The Duke will also announce a new charity aimed at raising awareness of the plight of his son, Prince George, who may one day suffer the same fate as his father. The Philip Larkin poem 'This Be the Verse' will be recited by the young royal, opening with the immortal lines "They fuck you up, your Mum and Dad", alluding to his father's baldness.

SAS: Who Dares Sweat? With Emily Maitlis, Pizza Express, Woking, Sunday 2pm

In this highly-anticipated event, BBC Newsnight presenter Emily Maitlis will conduct one on one interviews with sex offenders, whose goal it is not to sweat under her intense questioning. Bradley Walsh will be under the offender with a large bucket counting the drops of sweat as they fall. If an offender makes it through the interview without sweating, he or she will win a meal with Prince Andrew in the winner's prison cell. 

Now, i'm no sleuth, but I feel like this is a thinly-disguised ploy to get Prince Andrew into jail. They'll bring him to the winner's cell, cook a bitchin' lamb casserole, then just lock them both in as they eat and reminisce about their predatory heydays. 

Maybe this is for the best, either way, somebody is going to be Maitlissed. 

Enjoy Your Weekend!

I simply cannot wait for this marvelous jubilee weekend, i've waited years and can't believe it's finally happening. If any of you see me over the weekend, do say hello, i'm more than happy to pose for selfies or give you a hearty fisting-pump. Do be aware that I am woefully short-sighted, so if you see me from afar and you're waving frantically, I won't see you, dear. But I appreciate the sentiment. 

I'VE JUST BEEN INFORMED THE PISSING JUBILEE WAS LAST WEEKEND. OH BUGGER, BUGGER, BUGGER. FLAMING CHRIST IN AN APPLE CRUMBLE, WHAT THE EFFING SHIT IS GOING ON? SEVEN YEARS! SEVEN YEARS I'VE PREPARED FOR THIS. OH, BUGGERATION NATION! WHY? WHY? WHY DIDN'T I WRITE IT ON MY CALENDAR? OH, PISSING SHRIMP CAKES! I CAN'T EFFING BELIEVE IT! OH, HORTENSIA' S GOING TO LOVE THIS, HER SUCCESSOR MISSES THE PLATINUM JUBILEE WHILE SHE'S WORKING FOR VOGUE MAGAZINE IN NEW YORK! I WANT TO WORK FOR VOGUE MAGAZINE IN NEW YORK. I'VE GOT LOTS TO SAY ABOUT FASHION! LOTS! I'VE SEEN LOADS OF CLOTHES IN MY LIFETIME. FUCKING HORTENSIA. OH, I CANNOT EFFING BELIEVE IT. IT'S TYPICAL. "GO WORK FOR NNNN, THEY NEED A ROYAL CORRESPONDENT, YOU'D BE GREAT!" OH, WHY DID I LISTEN TO ANDREW NEIL? THIS IS WORST THAN BEING SACKED FROM GB NEWS! AT LEAST THEY STILL HAVE THE BOTTOM OF THE BARREL, I'M UNDERNEATH THE PISSING BARREL, AND I'M BEING SQUASHED BY IT! HELP! HELP ME! OH GOODNESS GRACIOUS CHRIST ON A PRIT-STICK. 

I will get through this, I will get through this, I will get through this. I guess in ten years time it'll be her Oak anniversary. 80 years on the throne. 106 year-old Elizabeth celebrates with England and just England since Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland will have gained independence. Imagine it. She comes out onto the balcony, sons, daughters, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, great great-grandchildren by her side, everyone will be so happy, so jubilant. It'll be simply wonderful, beautiful beyond compa...

NNNN would like to wish a speedy recovery to Lurpac after his very unfortunate car crash. He is still unconscious, yet stable and muttering about 'oaks'.