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Every time my Rwanda plans are thwarted, I pull the head off a puppy

By home secretary Suella Braverman, as racist as any two white men

IT is happening, Britain, and it is your fault. Once again my sensible, popular and legal Rwanda plans have been challenged, and more puppies are dead. 

How many times now? Since the flight was cancelled on the runway on June 15th last year? I wasn’t even in charge then, Priti was and she prefers kittens.

But, even as a mere attorney general who relied on gut feeling rather than fancy law books, I knew it was wrong. I went back to my constituency in Fareham that night and I’m not ashamed to say I shot three cows.

When I became home secretary, replacing the contemptibly compassionate kindness-addled Patel, I swore I would finish the job she lazily shirked like the idle malcontent she is. That’s not racist. You’re allowed to criticise. 

I promised I would not cease in my callousness until every last one of them was sent to Rwanda. And I’m not talking about just ‘illegal asylum seekers’. I mean all of them.

In December last year, when the High Court ruled my plans legal, I hurt no animal in anger. I ran up to and kicked that pigeon over a statue of Gandhi in joy, which the pigeon fully understood.

But today? I ordered my staff to bring me crates of puppies and keep them coming. My hands are tired. My wrists ache. The floor is indescribable. Such a senseless loss of life caused by the left-wing judiciary and the BBC.

Until the wheels on a flight packed with queue-jumping boat-crossing could-have-stayed-in-France lying terrorist scumbags leave British tarmac for Kigali – where they’ll love it, and make a vital contribution – I will continue.

Their blood is on your hands. Push that cage of budgies over. I need something that screams.

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A confused millennial tries to… get around using an A-Z

by Joshua Gardner, whose toaster connects to the internet for firmware updates

TRAVEL broadens the mind. Getting lost just pisses the mind off, which is why every phone, watch, car and person over 55 should be fitted with GPS. 

But did you know that before phones, people still had to get about without even having a little screen showing a full map of the world and their exact location, that with a flick of a finger turns to TikTok?

Apparently they used to use printed maps, which are to proper maps what books are to Kindle, and with reference to street names and ‘signs’ found their way to locations they needed to be like absolute wizards.

And this wasn’t in, like, the 1880s but within my actual lifetime. Navigating roads with crude ink markings on massive pieces of folded paper. No, seriously. You had to keep your place by pointing at the page or you were fucked.

I thought it was bullshit, like black-and-white telly, but Dad actually had this yellowing parchment in the glovebox of his Kia Sportage.

It looked like the Marauder’s Map from Harry Potter, only without the links to a transphobe. You couldn’t see little people in Whitstable or Lavenham going about their day either, which is a shame because that might have maintained my attention. There was just a random assortment of squiggles and numbers.

‘Here. Find our way there,’ he said, as we set off to get a Switch controller that is vital if I’m to get the Zelda armour I need for memes. He turned the satnav off. I felt like Bear Grylls.

I found our location eventually, after being talked through the whole index concept, on page 74. This was harder than naming an unproblematic celebrity from the Seventies because everything was so small and you couldn’t even pinch to zoom in.

Shortly afterwards we lost our way because the road we were following went off the page. Why didn’t the publishers tailor the contents to our personal specifications? The internet does and all it costs is your identity. No wonder this paper bollocks went obsolete.

I gave the map to Dad. After studying it with the intense focus he usually saves for new photos of Kylie he admitted that it was 12 years out of date, but managed to trace a route, like the grizzled old sea captain from Moby Dick. I’ve not read it but I did it for GCSE.

So that was my brief foray into using an A-Z. I still don’t get how it works, but I reckon a road atlas could be a niche hipster look, like a watch-chain. I’ve bought a vintage one of Leeds.

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