Big beasts replaced by big twat

THE big beasts of the Conservative party have been driven out and replaced with a big twat with four whole seats, it has emerged.

Last night saw previously powerful politicians unseated to be replaced in the right-wing media’s affections by the UK’s premier name in pint-guzzling twattery, Nigel Farage.

Donna Sheridan from Exeter said: “I guess even new dawns of democracy come with openly racist, immigrant-hating linings.

“Is one super-sized twat better or worse than a herd of twats of slightly lower calibre? Does his being in parliament make much difference to his decades of small-screen dominance? Is it cosmic balance because we lost George Galloway?”

Ryan Whittaker of Wrexham said: “I liked all my little Portillo moments, and I’m looking forward to about five days time when it finally sinks in for Truss, but I had my fingers crossed for more.

“It’s hard to feel overjoyed when the grim spectre of Jeremy Hunt still lingers over the country and then there’s Farage. We’ve exchanged the big beasts for the Godzilla of twats.”

The leader of Reform UK, previously the Brexit Party, previously UKIP, briefly but not officially the Anti-Vax and Lockdown Party, said: “There’s four of us like the Beatles, and they conquered the world.”

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'But I don't really work as a concept outside the Commons,' says Rees-Mogg

JACOB Rees-Mogg has confessed that, without a seat in Parliament, he is just some kind of Edwardian cosplay dickhead. 

The former member for North East Somerset believes that if he attempts to ride a penny-farthing or insist gentlemen address one other as ‘esquire’ in a non-political job then colleagues will simply laugh at him.

He continued: “The irony of dressing up as a patrician prick from a previous generation only really works when you’re in power.

“It reached its greatest expression when I was energy secretary and attempted to return the British Isles to the gas-lamp standard, but even as a backbencher my whole look worked beautifully. But what of today?

“I fear the urchins will jeer, the proletarians will snigger, and those who truly appreciated my juxtaposition of Edwardian and contemporary will no longer care, for only Telegraph leader writers truly understood me.

“What now for Rees-Mogg? Must I abandon my signature look, don a tracksuit and gold chains and begin hanging around car parks in Essex, looking to curry favour with the boy racers?”

He added: “It is at times such as these I regret naming a son Sextus.”