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Richard Tice speaks for us all. He is the Common Man, even if he does live in Dubai. I too would support war, famine and pestilence if it meant the return of Spangles.

Big Ben silent as the state of stupidity is assailed by the sounds of singers. General Starmer says he is removing falafel from the menu amid calls for an inquiry into its presence on the BBC Good Food site. Capt Kendall quaffs a breakfast brandy and does a wheelchair joke.

Luke Akehurst would vote for Satan to shit in a hospital's water supply if it hurt someone ne has a grudge against (and that's half the population).

Big Ben silent as the breakaways of Brexit roast in the Greece of grist. General Starmer enters the mess and gives chaps his "I'm very disappointed in all of you" look. Mr McSweeney, list in hand, goes round and stamps a circle on rebellious chaps' foreheads. Marked.

MARS Make America Really Stupid

This thing is a Labour MP. Probably already has his eye on a nice beachfront property in Gaza.

Big Ben silent as the griffins of greatness peck the eyeballs of expectation. General Starmer tells chaps in the mess that he's going to build 40 small hospitals. Bedpans and broomsticks, chants Capt Streeting as he dances widdershins around the regimental goat. Naked.

Big Ben silent as the strimmer of strictness demolishes the daffodils of democracy. General Starmer tells chaps that he's thinking of proscribing Coventry. A brave new world, he says, and Islington is on the list. Orderlies bring him a mug of tea, made with two tea bags. Stirred.

Big Ben silent as the daddy of denial spanks the children of choice. Gen Starmer explains informal political funding to chaps in the mess. These lobbyists are rich, he says, but the voters out there are far away. Chaps clutch Wimbledon tickets and nod.

We can sleep easy in our beds tonight as Comrade Parfitt is cast into durance vile. Today a banner, tomorrow a Bolshevik bomb. Made in England.

Big Ben silent as the frogs of fraud hop into the trough of treason. Chaps gather in the mess to see Capt Phillipson tussle with that Laura K woman but are disappointed to see Ms K interview herself as her usual chums aren't there. Gen Starmer says he's proscribing grannies. Brr.

Big Ben silent as the stones of stupidity block the cloaca of Clacton. General Starmer sends chaps out to cry on tv, warning them to avoid progs with sub-postmasters and the like. That Badenoch fellow posts two sneery tweets before her handlers can grab her burner phone. Grief.

Big Ben silent as the mouthpiece of misrule falls off the bicycle of banditry. Chaps stand for a minute's silence, spoiled only by the clicking of Capt Streeting's mobile keypad as he composes a tribute to Norman Stanley Fletcher. Capt Reeves tuts and starts a list of her own.

I'm old enough to remember when a future monarch searched the ranks of white English virgins to marry and breed, all the while copulating with a married woman. The fee structure was different, of course.