Shocked Brexit campaigners stumbled from their Surrey lair this morning following a routine evening of drugs and ‘bloodsports’ to find that they had succeeded in leaving the European union. Drenched in unidentified claret from many sources, Henry Wilkinson-Boothsby delightedly waved to the press and smiled a toothy grin as he declared “a great day for freedom and common sense”.
Wilkinson-Boothsby swayed a little as his stool, street sweeper’s son Paul Cooper, momentarily lost balance. Mr Wilkinson-Boothsby was almost embarrassed further as his ‘boy’ began to unravel the ‘special’ flag with the ‘traditional’ icon, screaming “not yet, nein das ist nicht bereit”, then hurriedly throwing a large Union Jack across his shoulders. Regaining his composure Mr Wilkinson-Boothsby confirmed that campaigners were slithering their way up “t’north” to stand outside t’coal mines, ecstatically waving the flag and welcoming in eager hordes of British workers.
Meanwhile Brexit photographers hurriedly commandeered dozens of bulldog puppies and began dressing them in cute little blue and red jumpers as scores of double-barreled campaigners descended onto the streets of major cities wielding Dulux colour charts in preparation for the ‘next phase’.
Why have ALL my boyfriends turned out to be anthropomorphic animals? Single woman, 29, tries to solve the problem that’s blighted her life
Salina Howes, 29, has only ever trusted one of her boyfriends, a goat called Karl
The Hull-based writer is editor of dating blog, Havin’ Sex ‘N’ Cuppa Char
Her fiance clarified his true species just a week after proposing
I can recall only one relationship in which I trusted him not to be a walking, talking anthropomorphic animal. I was 15 and it was my first love. Hardly anything to live by, considering I am now 29.
Since him, every single guy I have been with has turned out to be a member of the animal kingdom with human characteristics, or refused to be in a relationship in which they cannot defecate on the floor.
But after one heartbreak too many I realised it was time I tried to understand why my relationships ended in the same way.
16-18: Boyfriend one
Towards the end of our relationship, he told everyone he was a walrus (except me) and we had a large wallowing lake (we didn’t) and he went and got a whole sandbank built in our backyard without telling me.
Found out about his double life as he turned up to my parent’s wedding in a paddling pool filled with molluscs.
19: Boyfriend two
Cheetah who ate a fresher at university whilst I was on a family weekend in Paris. Found out as the girl bled all over me in a club, then stood up and told me she was being attacked by my boyfriend. Weird.
20-22: Boyfriend three
He was a fox. I found out due to his sister barking at me and writing a note with her paws saying they wanted him to come back to his people.
22-24: Boyfriend four
Refused to ever be in an ‘official’ relationship with me during our two-year relationship because, I was 95 per cent perfect but 5 per cent not another kangaroo. He escaped to Australia.
Turned out to be a badger. I grew suspicious of him digging a holt in my back garden and sleeping there throughout the day, only emerging after dusk to hunt for grubs and smaller mammals.
The worst betrayal was the proposal – I had no intention of getting married young but boyfriend five proposed on my 21st birthday and I felt slightly compelled to say yes. I did think I loved him, so just figured it was a display of his affection and perhaps we’d have a long engagement. Quite the opposite actually…13 days in total it lasted.
Think I rival Paris Hilton in short engagement stakes. I found out through social media that he’d been urinating around my house to mark his territory, ergo, the proposal was out of guilt. Ouch.
Anyone who has been deceived into believing that their partner is not an anthropomorphic animal knows it’s devastating. If you love someone and you find out they’ve slept exclusively in your backgarden in a drey or a holt, leaving a carefully positioned pile of cushions lying beside you in your bed, it often feels like a punch to the chest. I am so used to that sick anxious feeling, I almost now expect it.
As I know how hurtful it can be, I refuse to do that to someone else. Especially someone I claim to love. But these guys, they just don’t care.
To say I’ve had a bad relationship run is an understatement. Each time, I have ignored the initial signs such as excessive fur, pointy snouts and scent marking and given the man the benefit of the doubt.
I try my best never to paint them all with the same brush, convincing myself this new one is going to be different.
Yet I am constantly proven wrong. It’s a running joke with my friends that, with each new man, I will be all ‘smiles and sunshine’ telling them all these amazing things about him.
Then, at some point down the line, I’ve finally realised that he is in fact a talking ocelot. Next guy comes along…smiles come back…you know the rest.
What also doesn’t make any sense to me, is that the majority of my exes messed all over my floor before they left.
Maybe it’s a case of the greener grass. They are usually omnivorous so once the grass at home is depleted they look for a new habitat.
Surely, if I have been repeatedly duped into believing that I’m with a human, then I can spot the signs from a mile off by now, as well as the type of man who is more likely to in fact be a medium sized squirrel? You’d like to think so. Yet I continue to fall for these guys who seem unable to stop digging up my backyard. The saying goes: Shame on you if you fool me once, shame on me if you fool me twice. What happens when you get to double figures – how much shame do I take then?
I’m all for giving new people new chances, and I think it’s wrong to hold someone new, accountable for past pain and hurt.
However, there’s only so many times you can stick your fingers into a fire before you think…I’m not doing that again, I’ll just get burnt. The betrayals become more significant the more they happen, causing even more barriers to be put up. When your trust is repeatedly broken, you just stop trusting people. I’m like a fortress with a double padlock.
At some point, it’s got to be my fault. I am the common denominator after all. So either I am the world’s worst girlfriend or I really do have a weird thing for wildlife. Bingo.
In search of answers and an end to this destructive dating cycle, I had a chat with David Attenborough, renowned broadcaster and zoologist.
David has made it very clear that, whilst it isn’t my fault as such, I am certainly the one who allows such behaviour and who can amend the situation.
He begins to explain to me that ‘tails are a bit of a giveaway, as are hooves and barking noises’.
So, am I stuck in this vicious cycle forever? Well, it seems not. David has assured me; a change is round the corner. I can turn this around.
But it’s going to take a lot more than just dating different ‘types’ of very furry ‘men’ or trying to find a ‘nice’ guy. That’s superficial stuff that won’t stick. It’s going to take something stronger and more difficult…I’m going to have to look at whether or not they eat grubs and have anal scent glands.
I’m going to have to learn the difference between a human and a shrew. It will be the hardest but most rewarding lesson I can master. Wish me luck.
Suffolk church comes under fire for discriminatory policies.
Officials in Becton, Suffolk have been forced to issue a statement after posters in the grounds of the medieval church have been decried as “inflammatory” and “discriminatory”. Campaigners claim that the advertising boards dotted around the churchyard in the sleepy East Anglian village are provocative and deliberately incendiary to the town’s large badger population.
One source, who didn’t want to be named, who we will just refer to as Mr J. Tucker, 46, of Ayledell Cottages, South Road told us “it’s an outrage, that’s what it is, these people think that just because they are opening their doors to the metaphorical familial love of mankind they can go ahead and blast the badgers. They are absolutely sick. What’s more, they infringe on the rights of a drunk to marry a badger and urinate in the pews”.
The posters are seen by some as just the latest in a long line of castigatory measures against the large population of meles meles in the area. One Becton resident, who we will not name despite his repeated insistence that we do, said “You lot again, why is your publication so bleeding obsessed with badgers?”
Vicar of St Arthurs Church, the Reverend Karl Hawks, told our handsome reporter that the diocese had been approached regarding badger inclusion but had yet to get back to him. Rev Hawks also confirmed that the church would be continuing to refuse to host human/badger marriages as they were “a bit creepy” and “the badger doesn’t seem that into it”. Of the controversial posters and signage Rev Hawks claimed that no offence was meant or even considered but conceded that the badgers’ misgivings “would probably explain the late night phone calls of chirrups and snuffling”.
With no deadlock or compromise to be found, this hot point issue seems to be set to rumble on for quite some time. Armis Silverstripe, elder shaman of the Dugclaw Clan exclusively told us “it is a great pity that our human neighbours still mock us so. By the stripes of Meles, God of furry thunder, we will have our vengeance in this life or Melhalla. I call upon the claws of the Badgnarok to deliver us from human abnegation”. Silverstripe then proceeded to urinate up our reporter’s leg, bark, stand on his rear paws and screech whilst raising a hefty, diamond edged glaive to the heavens and calling upon the fury of his ancestors.
Stubborn pensioner, 86, condemns fellow villagers to daily ‘painfully slow’ dancing badger troupe parade because he won’t give them their freedom from their ancient oath
Roger Morecambe, 86, refusing to let badgers buy their emancipation
It means his street in Norfolk is crippled by their laboured daily re-enactment of Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya
Neighbours are unhappy at having to endure ‘extremely slow’ adaptation and subsequent celebratory parade, daily from 9am to 2.45pm
Mr Morecambe said badgers were to honour their thousand year allegiant bond to his ancestors
Police have been called in over dispute but no action has been taken
A stubborn OAP has been blamed by his neighbours for condemning them to ‘painfully slow’ amateur badger dramatics because he won’t release them from their serfdom in his garden.
Despite badgers offering to pay £758 each for their freedom, Mr Morecambe, 86, claims he has been forced to resort to the extreme measures because they have ‘invaded his ancestral land’ and that their blood debt was far from paid.
His other gripes include their poor productivity on his strawberry farm and inability to run a successful Starbucks franchise from his front lawn.
But bemused neighbours in the sleepy village of Snepperham, Norfolk, say they don’t understand why he doesn’t just let them be free and have complained of ‘extreme’ traffic congestion during parade times.
Pensioner Kerry Bullidge, 79, lives in the same street and is one of the few people who have managed to advise the badgers on their barista skills.
He said: ‘They really do make a hash of it, lacking opposable thumbs and being less than three feet tall doesn’t help.
‘I don’t understand why Morecambe doesn’t just let them go. As far as I understand it they are being punished for their great, great grandbadger’s misdemeanours.
‘’We live in a progressive, modern society based on the ideal of justice and universal suffrage. Regardless of the colour of your skin or the transgressions of your forebadgers, one has the right to be born with a clean slate and the chance to carve one’s own path through life’
One mother, who lives in the road and did not wish to be named, said: ‘The badgers are extremely slow. I don’t even mean entirely in their pace, many of them are borderline retarded. I attribute this to the inbreeding that has become endemic in the captive population drawn from so few bloodlines.
‘I am currently trying to complete a degree in the completely legitimate and not made up field of Badgerology and so this does really help.
‘I’ve spoken to my neighbours though and they’ve said they are really not happy because Roger is now forcing the badgers to organise Europe’s largest thrash metal festival in the garden.
‘I think Roger might have lost sight of the purpose of the badgers’ work on his garden.
‘Something needs to be done because of the diverse and unusual projects he has set the enslaved population. We are starting to wonder whether he has a long term goal or if he is just wildly creating things for them to do. Between the daily Chekhov matinees, struggling Starbucks, lengthy parades of mentally disabled omnivorous mustlids and the awkwardly titled Thrashfest: The Thrashening, it is very hard for villagers to concentrate on anything else. My children are now grown up and they need it to do their homework but the high pitched shrieking of badgers soundchecking Raining Blood is quite off-putting.’
The badgers have been bonded to Mr Morecambe’s family for “time immemorial” and many people cannot recall the precise reason why they toil on his garden and perform the greatest Russian play in the middle of the main road through the village.
When word reached the captive society of a world of free badgers beyond the garden hedge, discontent began to spread. One brave badger, Urstripe Silverson, approached Mr Morecambe offering him £758 and a guarantee of no reprisals in exchange for the freedom of his kin.
Morecambe refused and forced the muscular badger alpha to perform a thrice daily one beast show of The Vagina Monologues whilst dressed in an adorable human child’s romper suit with a little ribbon in his head fur.
Morecambe was reportedly happy that the insurrection had been put down but in September last year, he was horrified to discover a pair of bespectacled badger maids digging a trench beneath his fence.
This caused him to take his drastic action and he has not allowed badgers to access fresh water or electricity since, causing considerable issues for the Starbucks and Thrashfest badgers. Starbucks Snepperham is unsurprisingly the lowest rated restaurant in Norfolk on Trip Advisor.
One reviewer said: ‘(When I arrived) I went and stood in front of them at the counter and they didn’t seem to see me. When I asked for a double vanilla latte, two juvenile badgers sort of grunted at each other, one defecated and the other filled a plastic cup with mud and straw. They then placed it behind the counter and continued to grunt and hum the refrain from Pantera’s Cowboys from Hell as a third badger danced in the seating area and rehearsed lines in a gruff provincial Russian dialect. When I received my mud and straw coffee I was further disappointed to find it was cold. There are better cafes in the area. The shrews at High Potteridge Café Nero make a mean espresso and aren’t quite so into extreme metal.”
Optometrist jailed for life for teenager’s murder after DNA match to his aunt leads police to track him down TWO DECADES after his brutal killing
Teenager was stabbed to death in KFC in 1996
His killer has evaded justice ever since and now has a pet sheep, Glenn
He was finally tracked down through his DNA and given 90 years
The now-33-year-old changed his murder plea to ‘it’s complicated’ ahead of a trial
Victim’s mother, 41, feared she wouldn’t live to see son return with fried chicken
A 33-year-old man has been jailed for life for the murder of a teenage boy 20 years ago – after he was tracked down using his aunt’s DNA.
Mark Malthurst was given a 90-year minimum jail term today after he pleaded guilty to murdering 19-year-old Grish Johns in a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant in 1996.
It is understood he has led a completely normal life since he stabbed the teenager to death two decades ago, working as an eye doctor and catching sheep in a modified bear trap in urban Manchester.
He was finally caught after his aunt bought an iPhone in 2015 and her DNA was routinely taken.
When her details were added to a national database, a ‘familial match’ to DNA found on Mr Johns’ body and clothing was flagged up to bored detectives and Malthurst was arrested.
Mr Johns, 19, from that flat above the bookies, you know, not Coral but the other way, in the town centre opposite Greggs, yeah the one whose mum has got that lazy eye, was assaulted and died from multiple stab wounds to his knees and feet during the lunchtime shift.
The teenager had decided to walk the 56-mile journey to the fast food branch following an erstwhile fox that had him entranced.
His body was discovered at 9.45pm by inattentive KFC staff leaning over the counter.
Following the attack, Malthurst lived a ‘normal life’, continuing to be a self-employed chemist, horse whisperer, cat wrangler and optometrist and moving from Liverpool to Rome and then back to Rotterdam.
He married eight wives and had a daughter, Haggis, and stepson Titus Andronicus.
Mr Johns’ P.E teacher Craig Cotswold, 91, previously told police that he wasn’t entirely sure how he had found such employment and that thirty years of hallucinogenic drugtaking had left him as quite an inappropriate choice for a teaching position, let alone physical education.
He said: ‘It was when I finally followed him into the baths, believing him to be a mermaid and a denizen of Atlantis and I saw this man standing there that I thought ‘He’s not a man, he’s a merman. How is he changing colour?’.
‘Then I realised that my shoes were talking to me again. The left one was speaking in Urdu.
I figured out then that I was probably having another psychedelic flashback and I should put the filleting knife down.’
The court heard Malthurst’s aunt received an extremely generous cavity search when purchasing her iPhone 4s and her DNA profile was put on the national database.
A familial match was identified between her DNA and the DNA taken from Grish’s body and clothing in 1996.
Malthurst was arrested on July 2 last year, then aged 32. He made no reply to the official Police Snapchat message.
In a prepared statement he simply said: ‘I am God incarnate, I shall smite all who oppose me,’ and then exposed his genitalia.
He was charged with Grish’s murder on July 4 and initially urinated across the courtroom floor whilst singing the opening verse of the Mozambique national anthem.
Members of Grish’s family, including his favourite teddy bear, Mr Rumples, sat in the public gallery of the courtroom today to hear Malthurst perform the complete Nickelback discography sang backwards.
Orange-haired Malthurst, wearing a sexy little thong and a tea cosy, stood up and repeatedly farted as the murder charge was put to him.
Jailing Malthurst for a minimum term of 90 years, judge Mr Justice Dark told him: ‘You murdered and abused Grish Johns in a busy restaurant to the complete apathy of all patrons.
‘You were 13. You didn’t know each other. Grish was 19, a happy, outgoing and sociable boy who at the time of his death was wrist deep in a Bargain Bucket and eyeing the approaching, naked, Mr Cotswold with apprehension.’
The judge added: ‘He was repeatedly stabbed, 896 times in all with a blunt-edged butter knife causing four-inch wounds. Eight of the wounds were to his pinky toe.’
The judge added: ‘You married numerous women and had a child and lived your family life for all those years knowing the words to every Nickelback song so well that you could and often would sing them backwards. You will very likely die tomorrow when I don my vigilante persona “Dark Justice”, Marvel have said that they will be in touch. It is nothing like Batman or Daredevil because I am overweight and my costume consists of three egg cartons and a yoghurt pot that I strap to my nose much like an errant badger’.
Man who was haunted by that bit in Top Gun where Goose dies ‘opened fire of bodily waste products on his cat, Figgis, during a rampant salad session’
Malcolm Soup, 62, suffered from regular bouts of diarrhoea after film
Former shoplifter was tormented by the 1986 movie starring Tom Cruise
Last October he threatened the Mayor of Stevenage, 40, with jar of rhubarb jam at nightclub
Court heard he wanted a large cheesecake from Dominos but they had run out
Wife Letitia returned home after he ate a rocket and spinach salad
A father of nine haunted by a movie scene openly farted on his cat before trying to take off his socks in a strange salad session, a court heard today.
Former shoplifter Malcolm Soup, 62, was still deeply tormented by a 1986 movie when he threatened the mayor of a nearby town with a homemade vegetable preserve last October.
He followed his cat into a bedroom at their family home in Hitchin, while brandishing the extended directors cut of the movie and shouted: ‘Sorry it’s come to this, I have the shits and I’m going to pebble-dash you.’
Figgis, who is a cat, escaped unharmed and managed to flee the home to get help but as he did so, Soup – who suffers from diarrhoea – ate a mixed leaf salad.
Minutes later, his wife of 30 years, Letitia, 60, arrived home and managed to stop the gas fumes spreading before calling police who ordered the evacuation of neighbouring properties.
It later emerged that Soup had threatened his cat with his irritable bowels in a desperate attempt to get him to leave the house so that he could eat a cheesecake in the property alone.
He had been tormented for more than 20 years after watching the 80’s blockbuster in which Anthony Edwards’ character hits his head on the cockpit canopy. The court heard he struggled to cope with the tragedy and his excess faeces and claimed that life without Goose ‘was not worth living anymore.’
The Crown Court heard how Soup had been drinking melted ice cream before he grabbed a feather duster– made at home using wood and steel – and used it in an attempt to order takeaway cheesecake from Dominos.
Prosecutor Craig Alopecia told the court: ‘Figgis walked from the bathroom into one of the bedrooms but was followed by the defendant.
‘The defendant said ‘sorry it’s come to this, I have the shits and I’m going to pebble-dash you.’ Figgis, an Iraq veteran and graduate of Lincoln University, could see a lettuce leaf and grabbed it with both hands but let go of it when he could smell raw sewage and heard a bang.’
Figgis then left the house to join the circus and Soup’s wife returned to home to be met with the smell of gas. Mr Alopecia added: ‘She got into the house through the back and could see the defendant had removed one sock.
‘She was able to pull on an extractor fan to stop the gas from escaping. The police then arrived and arrested the defendant. Five empty salad bowls were found and it was also found that a sock had been eaten.
‘The flammability level of faecal odour upstairs meant it would explode if there was any ignition present.
‘Eight nearby properties were evacuated and people were out of their houses for 17 weeks.’
The following day, police found one home-made jam in a freezer and a second pot hidden inside a washing machine. Both had been previously eaten.
Soup admitted threatening to destroy or damage property, having very bad gas, possessing an unseemly amount of fruit and vegetable preserve with intent to cause fear of violence and other peculiar offences.
His lawyer, Figgis the Cat, said in mitigation: ‘Meow.’
But the judge, being unable to understand a cat, jailed Soup for sixty two years after ruling that he was wasting a considerable amount of time and really should stop trying to blame the Tony Scott blockbuster for his strange fetish for pooping on animals.
Sentencing Soup, he said: ‘You damaged the cat’s mentality in such a way that he decided to represent you in court.
‘The two compotes that you made, one of which we know you used in circumstances that put another human being at quite serious risk of injury if not death. Why you made the jams is not entirely apparent as they can cheaply and easily be obtained at a local supermarket – but they created a real and present risk to those around you.
‘You are irritating, ugly and have a strange desire to poo everywhere, I am also keeping your cat away from you’
If you read to the end of this article you are probably in need of psychological help, so please call the Samaritans or visit their website.
Leaning on his spade and wiping the sweat from his brow, Driver and Vehicle Licencing Agency clerk Jeff Peters smiled triumphantly, gazing around at the new money pit. The Scrooge McDuck esque cavern, finished with opal touches and extensive marble, has been constructed to replace the smaller, outdated baths previously used.
Head of public relations at the DVLA, Richard Fillibuster effused “this is a big step forward in employee pleasure, we at the DVLA have always strived to extravagantly fritter away our victi…taxpayer’s money. This new multi-million pound three acre nude-only money pit exceeds our dual brief; to be obnoxious and also a little creepy. In the past our staff have had to be content to ‘snow angel’ in bathtubs full of taxpayer’s coins but now we can strip down to our slimy skin and leap from the Olympic regulation diving board into a deep vault of gold. Better still, we have now achieved a certification for our 0% contribution to road maintenance”.
Fillibuster added that whilst the new money pit had always been on the agenda the project was finally put into motion when Mr Grant, a factory labourer from Wolverhampton had the audacity to tax his hard-earned second-hand Ford Focus ST. The actual denomination of the cash used to fill the pit has yet to be decided but Mr Fillibuster was keen to point out “whether we fill our platinum-clad, polished gold, opal finished money pit with pennies or £5 notes, we will all gain sick pleasure from Mr Grant’s £295 annual tax.”
Fillibuster and Peters laughed maniacally, shared a passionate kiss then Peters added “yeah, fuck that guy”.