Relief as Britons allowed to water their swamps

THOUSANDS of relieved gardeners are finally able to water the swamp-like areas attached to their houses, as the hosepipe ban is lifted.

Many homeowners had been concerned that, unless the ban was lifted soon, they would be unable to keep their lawns submerged to the depth required to support larger marine life like catfish and snapping turtles.

Accountant and keen gardener Nathan Muir said: With only 38 inches of rainfall since January, the mangrove region of our garden, which I navigate with a type of one-man hovercraft, was beginning to dry out very slightly and the alligators which arrived in February were getting a little bit irritable.

If only the ban had been lifted a little earlier I might still have a pet dog and a left arm below the elbow, but better late than never.

Julian Cook, a retired doctor living in Devon, said: If I fill the garage with water then open the door, I can ride the wave on my canoe past the first few rafts of feral starving children and my wife can pick off the rest with a high-pressure hose.

That might give me a chance of reaching the ruins of the supermarket, where I can skin-dive for precious cans of food.”

The lifting of the ban has triggered a kind of watering mania among some homeowners, who are hosing with wild abandon their gardens, cars, carpets, laptops, and priceless stamp collections.

Housewife Carolyn Ryan of Durham said: “The ground floor of my house is already four feet under water thanks to torrential rain, but it was missing something.

Now I can wade out to get the hose, hook it up to the bathroom tap and create a beautiful cascading water feature down the stairs.

“Plus I just watered a horse, for the sheer hell of it.”

50 Shades of Clegg

THE Daily Mash presents an exclusive excerpt from the erotic memoir that is setting the publishing world alight. The million-selling book tells the story of an ambitious young politician who enters into a sado-masochistic relationship with a seductively powerful Old Etonian…

The Downing Street office reeked of wood polish and Tory man musk. In my former life – debating some half-baked ‘double garage tax’ with Vince Cable over lasagnes at the Ramada Inn – I had been confident, domineering, a leader of sorts. But this was the pheromone-scented gorilla nest of power. His world.

He swivelled in his chair as I entered. I noticed that He was eating a peach, noisily.

“What the fuck do you want, Clegg?”

I realised my mind had gone blank. Why had I come? Student fees? Some tax or other? It no longer mattered. I was the rabbit. He was the headlights.

“I…I…think…”

He sucked out the peach stone, like some pedigree sex hoover, and spat it into my forehead, making a small dent.

“Who gives a rat’s cock what you think, you worm?”

“But…I’m the Deputy Prime Minister.”

“You realise that vanity title is nothing but longhand for ‘Fuck Pony’? It’s meaningless crap. There is only one truth in this world, Clegg…pain.”

He laughed, mirthlessly, rapaciously, revealing strong canines utterly unlike Vince Cable’s dentures, which were fit only for weakly sucking at pasta sheets.

“Let me show you something, Clegg. It is time for your initiation to begin.”

He pressed a button on his desk and a section of oak panel slid back. A hooded figure emerged from the rectangle of darkness. Although its face was covered, from the aimless limping gait and laboured breathing I could tell it was Michael Gove, dressed as a member of the Spanish Inquisition.

“Take him into the playroom Michael, and strap him to ‘Le Pouton’. Shave him top and bottom, I’ll see to him after this conference call.”

With the phone handset wedged between chin and shoulder, He opened his desk drawer and removed something that looked like a ping pong bat studded with nails.

Michael Gove looped a rope around my wrists and yanked them hard behind my back.

Gove, who is surprisingly strong, dragged me into the secret room, where strange devices gauged to inflict both pain and pleasure lined the wall.

I felt scared and demeaned and excited, knowing no one would hear my screams when He finished his conference call and came to administer his terrible, loving punishment. No one…

Except George Osborne, who wouldn’t care anyway.