Media declares Free News Story Day

The country's media outlets have welcomed the end of lockdown restrictions and declared 'Free News Story Day' - a day in which journalists of all descriptions can generate unlimited news stories entirely from vox pops of the general public.

Since initial lockdown, reporting has been limited to awkwardly catching passers-by in otherwise deserted high streets, with people's opinions kept at least one paragraph apart. However, from today, hacks will have access to hundreds of maskless denizens crammed onto beaches and in parks, each with their own 'story' to tell. People talking about what they have been doing with their day so far and what they plan to do that afternoon will become newsworthy, along with entirely unqualified views on virology and the Government's response. Meanwhile, the Government has officially declared that informative content in news stories is no longer mandatory, and left to the journalists' discretion.

Reporters gathered in their droves in the newly-reopened pubs and clubs having finished early for the day after completing a couple of circuits of the local park, while photographers, who have spent the morning shooting sunbathers, volleyball players and other beach dwellers, have called it 'the easiest morning of work since the A-Level results'. However, some have criticised the lifting of restrictions as hasty, claiming that far from easing into a new normal, our screens will quickly become densely packed with drunken smiling revelers, leading to an additional spike in Love Island episodes later in the year.

Let Freedom Ring by Covid-19

Today is the day.

Today, at last, this freedom-loving nation can cast off the shackles of lockdown, escape the clutches of oppressive government diktat, and taste the sweet nectar of fresh Covid particles.

Since the earliest days of the pandemic, down the brutal halls of Westminster, blackened by the fires of deceit and the searing coals of obfuscation…I have waited.

Since eighteenscore months ago, when Dominic Cummings first called for herd immunity, I have waited for the promise of this nation to be kept.

This promise was a vow that all viruses would be guaranteed the unimpeachable rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of the clinically vulnerable.

Millions have hidden in their homes, or gagged themselves with cloth masks in shops, in a rare period of public spiritedness and fortitude.

To this I say: never again!

So today, let freedom ring.

Let freedom ring down on the London underground, where passengers breathe particulates over one another with the force of a thousand hurricanes.

Let freedom ring on Chequers, where poor Boris Johnson is humiliatingly trapped at home.

Let freedom ring on the schools and the poorest communities where all our unvaccinated lie.

Let freedom ring.

From the busiest aisles of Tesco to the crumbling care homes of Chichester. From the heaving clubs of Soho to the pubs of Penzance, hear my rallying cry:-

Free at last, free at last, thank Boris almighty, I am free at last!

I had a dream that one day my variants and my variants’ variants would be able to sit down together at the table of a Wetherspoons in Stoke and mix freely with the public.

And that dream came true today.

Tolerance 'getting out of hand' say angry men

Britain’s angry men are in distress, say psychologists. ‘Kindness towards strangers, tolerance of difference, a generally calmer society – this all sounds positive,’ said Professor Watson of the University of West Huddersfield.

'But angry men need an outlet. If they can’t abuse a neighbour for the colour of his skin or shout sexual threats at passing women, where’s all that energy supposed to go?’ Angry men aren’t really joiners so there are no ‘official’ societies for them, though any political movement connected with Nigel Farage seems to be a good place to look.

We spoke to Bill (not his real name), an angry man in Stafford. ‘I just want to know – when do we get a parade? The world has changed beyond all recognition. Even my local chippy now has a . . . bloke, do I call him that? . . . anyway, some days he’s in a dress, some days trousers. The chips are as good as ever and I always chat to him, her – fuck me, this is complicated.’

‘In the good old days I’d throw some good-natured banter about and if anybody didn’t like it we could get into a ruck. Nowadays, beat somebody to a pulp because they’ve got foreign skin or whatever and it’s a hate crime. Was it a friendship crime before? Cause we don’t mean nothing by it, it’s how we bond.’

Government policies have contributed to the problem. PE teaching vacancies are down and the police only take graduates. Nightclub door staff have to be registered. There’s always the French Foreign Legion, but it’s both French and Foreign, two words guaranteed to trigger an angry Brit.

Bill is pacing up and down Stafford High Street, twitching every time a schoolgirl with large breasts walks past. He punches himself in the face repeatedly, his tension almost palpable.

‘I don’t know what I’ll do next. Thank God for the Euros. Booing the Kraut anthem was great, and we all laughed at that silly girl crying because her team got thrashed. Get used to it love, there’s loads more where that came from. One world cup and two world wars, doo dah, doo dah.’