“When I created the Brussel Sprout,” said God, “I had no idea that it would be associated with Belgium or the European Union, or anything else boring, in fact. I’ve always seen it as one of the tastiest, most fun and vibrant of all the sprouts – if not all the vegetables. Damnit, I eat them every day, why can’t everyone else?”

The campaign will start next week with a spectacular launch party in Jerusalem, which God still considers “his”. He explains: “Oh, it’s my old haunt, I used to love it there. So I thought it would be a great place to re-launch the Fun Sprout. I’m planning a quite spectacular miracle, and I’ve had to enlist the help of veteran magician Paul Daniels for this one. Basically, you’ll love this, it’ll start raining Fun Sprouts. Brilliant eh? It’ll last five minutes – which is costing me about half of this year’s crop, but it’s going to be worth it.”

Further miracles include a golden Fun Sprout, which will appear in week two of the campaign somewhere near Damascus, and God is hoping that a number of “Fun Sprout Disciples” will spread the message and increase Fun Sprout uptake throughout the world.

God’s son, however, still refuses to eat his sprouts, saying “Dad’s banging on about them all day, but only because he grows so many of them. They give him wind, too – it’s disgusting sitting at the dinner table with him. When I went down there a couple of thousand years ago, he wanted me to sell his Sprouts at the local market but nobody would have them. But hey, it’s his hobby and his passion, so who am I to tell Him what to do.”

God’s track record in marketing, however, has not been good, especially since his attempt to rebrand beetroot as an alternative to chocolate in the 1300s. “People believed almost everything I said back then,” he mused, “but I cocked that one up.”

Jean Aperitif, a renowned French binge drinker, said “you English, you just throw the same lager down your throats as if you’re going to die tomorrow. What’s the point? Here in France, we vary our binge drinks – for example, myself, I start with a pastis in the morning, and follow that up with a couple of beers in the early afternoon. I then move on to white, rose, and then red wine – always in that order.”

“In fact, I make sure that I start off with a light Loire red before moving on to the stronger stuff – Burgundy and then Bordeaux. Perhaps a Languedoc. Do you know what these wines are? Of course not, you’re English and all you drink is alcoholic fruit juice from Australia. No class.”

Nicola Vommerton, 24, from Newcastle, disagreed vehemently with the results of the survey, exclaiming: “We is well better than them French at binge drinking – waheeeeey”, before vomiting into a dustbin. Picking up her skirt, she continued: “I has varied my drinking today, right – with a bottle of gin and a bottle of vodka, even before I went out on the town with my mates.”

She insisted: “Any Froggie who wants to proper binge drink, all they has to do is come up here and we’ll teach them a thing or two about proper binge drinking innit.”

French sociologists have been reluctant to portray binge drinking as a trend, stating that “nothing has changed. We’ve always drunk this much. What has changed is that you Brits have lost that binge drinking edge that you used to have back in the days of Oliver Reed, George Best and the Rolling Stones. Today’s modern British binge drinker has far too much focus on cheap, rubbishy lager.”

Gordon Brown called on Britain’s army of binge drinkers to keep fuelling the drinks industry, saying “it is our patriotic duty to turn around the results of this survey. I will be creating a new Binge Drinking Tsar to ensure that not only is our level of binge drinking maintained, but that the quality of our binge drinking is guaranteed.”

“This has been a real blessing,” admitted head teacher Frederick von Bottomley. “I mean, yes, there’s the health thing, but we’ve been trying to get kids to use their adjectives for years, and nothing had happened. And then along comes Saint Jamie of Oliver – and hey presto, it’s adjective upon compound adjective upon adverb… it’s magnificent. From ‘lovingly hand-roasted’ parsnips to ’sweet, crunchy, oven-baked crisps’, our childrens’ adjectives have improved enormously.”

Oliver’s school meals are literally dripping with adjectival and adverbal juices, including “Jamie’s woodchip-smoked pigeon with lightly crushed maris piper potatoes, scattered with finely chopped, hand-picked chives”, and “Jamie’s hand-churned ice cream with lovingly drizzled home-made raspberry coulis and home-baked wafers.”

Von Bottomley continued: “This has extended into the classroom. Whereas before, teachers were struggling to get a sentence out of some kids, they’re getting stuff like ‘home-prepared answers to lovingly-set questions’ instead of homework, and ‘eagerly awaited and anticipated end of the day’ instead of home time. I have to say, I’m absolutely delighted, and none of this would have happened with Turkey Twizzlers.”

13-year-old Hugo Jukes said that he doesn’t understand what everyone’s on about, but he “really does love Jamie’s sparkling, magnificent food,” adding that “I never did like those factory-made Turkey Twizzlers, and since Jamie came, we’ve had gorgeously hand-served meals on delightfully hand-cleaned plates. All this talk about overly used compound adjectives makes no sense to me, I’m just glad that my fantastically prepared teacher comes into our hand-painted classroom every morning with plenty of great new stuff to teach us.”

Grammarians have warned, however, that over-usage of compound adjectives can lead to alienation and, at worst, depression. Benjamin Overheated from the Adjectival Institute of Oxfordshire said that “it’s fine to toy with adjectives at a young age – and to throw in some adverbs, create compounds – yes, it’s fun, it’s enjoyable, it’s risky. But what happens when the adjectives no longer make sense? What happens when there’s no need for a compound adjective? It’s OK for Jamie Oliver to play around with these difficult grammatical constructs, but youngsters should know the risks. We’ve already had several cases of people under 18 who have stumbled over the wrong adjectives, and have needed therapy.”

“It was not the reaction I was expecting,” explained local dairy farmer Marcel Vachequirit. “The cheese is beautiful, perhaps my finest ever cheese, and yes – I admit – it does have quite a tang, but the mortality rate so far is astonishing.”

Vachquirit explained that the cheese-making process for Chaussettes de Fesses is slightly different, and according to EU law, may actually be illegal. The milk is allowed to ferment for 60 days before being fed through a pig’s bladder and steamed in the belly of a goat, which is local tradition. It is then allowed to ‘rest’ in the open air for a further two weeks before the resulting cheese is then stored in old, unwashed socks for a further 24 days.

After the sock storage, the cheese is then insulted for a minimum period of two hours – a process that Vachquirit believes gives the cheese its rather sour, unfriendly edge.

“It is a process that I have researched and honed to perfection,” said Vachequirit. “And maybe those EU commissioners won’t like it, but when they catch that first smell – they’ll be hooked. I eat nothing but Chaussettes de Fesses. In the morning, I have it on my toast. For lunch, I have it with some grapes, and in the evening, I melt it in the oven and eat it with baguette. Yes, it’s true, the local government has placed a three-mile no-go zone around my farm, and even my wife has to wear a gas mask, but for the taste, it’s worth it.”

The local prefecture demanded that an exclusion zone be placed around the farm, and have called for anyone known to have made contact with the cheese to report themselves immediately to the local hospital for a deep clean.

The mayor of Bisous told reporters: “The situation is urgent. Three people have already died, and several more are in hospital. We have to find a way of eating this cheese without people dying, because the cheese, this beautiful cheese, it smells better than your smelliest Epoisses, ranker than your rankest Munster, reekier than your reekiest Brie de Meaux. It’s cheese heaven, and we have to have some, we have to have it now. We can smell it wafting from the farm, even with the three-mile exclusion zone placed around it. We all want a taste, and we’ve applied for Chaussettes de Fesses to be protected as a national institution.”

In fact, the village has witnessed a sudden increase in the number of tourists, notably thrill-seekers, looking to experience the cheese. Japanese Francophile and cheese-fan Mi Sukichizi said that he has “travelled thousands of miles just for this moment”, adding that he “could smell it from the airport”.

In the meantime, Monsieur Vachequirit continues his lonesome cheese-side vigil, estranged from the villagers who not only fear for their safety, but long for a slice of his famous fromage.

“Every vegetarian knows that bacon is fine”, beamed Milton-Keynes 1066, head of VAGINA. “Some people say it comes from pigs, but we all know that bacon is grown from the earth, just like asparagus and potatoes, and maybe chicken stock too. It smells great, and we just want to taste it goddamnit, hand it over.”

A demonstration of well over 20 salivating vegetarians marched on Downing Street last week in an attempt to get Gordon Brown to overturn the ruling that bacon was indeed a “meat product” and came from swine. Factions within the group have been claiming that bacon should be legalised for vegetarians at least for medical use.

“Eating nut roast every day is fine, but when someone’s eating bacon across the table from you, the emotional damage that can be caused is huge. All we’re asking is for at least one slice to be made available to vegetarians for medicinal purposes,” moaned Alexandre Calind’arbre. “Or at the very least, for an extended period of research into the reaction of vegetarians against bacon. Oh come on, please?”

A number of vegetarian scientists have proposed “Morning Star Streaky Bacon” as a vegetarian bacon, which although it looks somewhat like bacon, tastes more like nut roast. “We’re not fooled”, claimed Calind’arbre. “Blindfold your average vegetarian, give ‘em fakon and they’ll more than likely vomit their guts up. We want the real stuff.”

Last month, government officials voted unanimously against reclassifying chicken as vegetarian, despite repeated pleas from chef Gordon Ramsey, who was last seen pelting vegetarians with slices of venison.

Strict vegetarians, though, have warned against the consequences: “Yes, we all crave a slice of the good stuff – who doesn’t”, opined Belinda duMarais of the Orthodox Vegetarian Union of London and Region (OVULAR). “But once you’ve tried bacon, once you’ve cleared that meaty, tasty hurdle, what’s next? Full-on pork? Beef? Bernard Matthews factory made turkey joints?”

“We apologise to our consumers,” said a somewhat fictitious spokesman for Tesco last night. “This will come as a horrible shock to many. It was absolutely not our intention to provide them with healthy ingredients, and we are horrified to learn that some of our ready meals contain both vitamin B and lettuce. We will be looking into our procedures closely to ensure that the obesity of our customers is not affected in the future, and that they continue to enjoy gorging themselves on our health-free products.”

The Eat Yourself Stupid range has proved incredibly popular since its introduction as a “guilt-free” path to premature heart disease, early onset diabetes and potentially, death. Its high-fat range of triple burgers, beer-soaked lard and goose fat drinks literally flew off the shelves within minutes of going on sale.

TV adverts proclaiming the Eat Yourself Stupid range have included notable fatties Dawn French and Johnny Vegas indulging themselves in an Eat Yourself Stupid “triple cardiac chocolate mousse” before bathing in a vat of clarified butter. The strapline “contains absolutely no healthy ingredients whatsoever” has today been blown out of the water.

“I just love the Eat Yourself Stupid range,” beamed Tesco consumer Theresa Futtocks, from Shytte-on-Sea. “But when I discovered a lettuce leaf next to the Cholesterol Lasagna, I shrieked and called my husband over – he had to remove it with a pair of tweezers. I’m damned if I’m touching any of that foreign shit. I immediately hopped back on my shopmobility scooter, well, OK, I kind of slumped on it, and took it back to the store. It seems there were quite a few others who had the same problem.”

Queues of angry shoppers have been a familiar feature over the last few days, with many complaining about a “nauseating feeling” after mistakenly chomping on a piece of carrot. Rachel Gonorrhea of Basingstoke said that she “choked on this bizarre orange thing”, and added that “if I’d known they were trying to creep up on us with all this healthy shit, then I wouldn’t have bought it. I’d have gone to the fruit and veg section.”

She paused before adding: “I think I’ll go back to just eating crisps, now.”

A senior turkey, however, told the Daily Shame that the vote of 99.9% in favour of Christmas was “horribly skewed” and that turkeys are nowhere near as stupid as people – and Bernard Matthews – would have them believe.

“Where do you think we get that expression from – like turkeys voting for Christmas? We get it because not even the most stupid turkey would vote for Christmas. We’re neither religious nor dumb – in fact, some of us can hold a conversation for several minutes. Now find me an animal that can do that.”

“And now we’re given the chance of a referendum – to finally lay this thing to bed – and what happens? We turn around and find out that the vote was 99.9% in favour of Christmas.”

“I sense the hand of Bernard Matthews behind all this.”

Matthews, who organised the referendum, said that it was “legally binding” and that the turkey vote for Christmas was “bootiful”. He continued: “Look, I know turkeys better than anyone and they’re just dumb. They were clucking on about Christmas and how – for some reason – about 7 million of them just disappear around the start of December. Well I told them that if they wanted to vote on it, they could. And they did. In favour. Amazing.”

However, the senior turkey disputes the legality of the vote. “Mr Matthews took us into a booth and seemed to give us free rein as to whether we voted for Christmas, or against it. But I could see him putting pressure on certain turkeys as they entered the voting barn, and I’ll bet you anything he’s tampered with the votes.”

“I even heard him telling one turkey that she’d become a bag of turkey twizzlers if she didn’t vote for Christmas. He’s a scumbag.”

“Back in the day, it was considered the cool thing to do”, said an embarassed PM when questioned about Buckie abuse as a schoolchild. “All of the kids at school were doing it, and I was pressured by a peer group into drinking it. I must underline, though, that while I held the bottle of Buckfast to my lips, I most definitely did not swallow. And if I did, I went back to my dormitory and vomited it back like a proper bulemic.”

The drink has come under fire lately after scientists revealed that just three bottles of Buckfast a day, way below the average daily consumption of the average alcoholic Lanarkshire resident, could increase your chances of becoming the next Robert Mugabe.

“It’s a wonder that Scotland hasn’t had a despot already”, said Hamish McHooch of the Glasgow Institute of Tonic Studies (GITS). “Our research has indicated that one bottle a day can turn you into a rapist, two bottles can up your danger level to that of a Uruguayan midfielder, and three bottles can turn you into a seething, fascist dictator. It turns out Franco was quite a guzzler of the old Buckie, so little wonder that he ruled Spain with such an iron fist. Five bottles a day can be potentially harmless to everyone in your immediate surroundings, which is why we’re advising publicans to sell Buckfast with a tranquilliser dart so that nearby friends can calm that person down on the spot.”

Residents of Lanarkshire are bracing themselves for “Buckie rations”. Morag McHoosewreckagh told the Daily Shame that “without my fifteen a day, I’ll go insane. People say it makes you mad, like, but it keeps me calm. If they limit me to ten, I’ll tear this hoose doon ah tells yae!”

Buckfast themselves are now considering a re-brand from the genocide-inducing high-alcohol tonic drink to a “luxury brand” for the homesick Scot who longs to drink the nectar of the highlands. A spokesman for Buckfast said “We’re in dire need of an image change now that people think Gordon Brown has been squaffing our drink. What we need is to go after the affluent, middle-class Scots who’ve left home and want reminding of their childhood.”

Brown, however, finds his own job on the line because of the danger drink. Opposition leader David Cameron pounced on the opportunity, saying that “this just proves what a danger Scottish people are to the community. What’s wrong with champagne?”

The service: rude.

The place: the Cafe des Connards, on the famed rue des Merdes in Paris, which claims to be the restaurant with the rudest waiters on earth, and le garcon has just told me to shit myself a new head.

Tourists are flocking to the Cafe Connard after it made the startling claim to having the most impolite, impatient and downright insolent waiters in the whole world. “It is just part of our culture”, said Maitre d’ Phillipe Ouainqueu. “You come to a restaurant in Paris and you do not expect snivelling politeness. You expect to be insulted. However, we do it with panache. It is part of the Parisian culture to come to a restaurant and be made to feel humiliated and small. We just do it in spades.”

The cafe has made itself famous for turning away American tourists, telling them that they know “nothing about food”, informing British tourists that they can only have “custard and jelly”, as that’s all they understand, and greeting French visitors with a knee to the groin.

French restaurant critic Julien Mesfesses, however, has started to appreciate the place: “When I first went there, I received the customary knee to the groin, and the waiter kept flicking my ear. When I asked for another five minutes to think about my choice, he told me I was a chieur – a shitter, basically, and that I could have thirty minutes. He came back an hour later and everything I chose was ‘off’. All I could eat was the raw steak.”

“However, over time, I have come to appreciate the restaurant. Whenever I come, the knee to the groin seems more and more friendly, and I see it as a Parisian establishment.”

It is not unusual, when dining at the Cafe Connard, to be drawn into the spectacle. With fifty covers a night, there is ample opportunity for the waiters to display the full gamut of Parisian rudeness.

Head waiter Nicolas Tammere explains the attraction behind working for the Cafe Connard: “It’s not just a 9 to 5 job, or any job in any cafe, this is an opportunity to maintain the very French values that are under attack by your smiling Burger King employees. We don’t do politeness in Paris. We do rudeness, and people come from all around to experience it first hand. I love my job, and I hate my customers. It’s like that.”

“We have no idea how deep this thing runs”, says Ulster’s Head of Food Things, Gerry O’Belch. “Iris Robinson had her claws dug deep into the industry, with a network of 19-year-old boys running restaurants and cafes and bars, and it was all propped up by this constant flow of cash.”

Seventeen more teenagers last night admitted that they had slept with Iris Robinson in exchange for cheques worth several tens of thousands of pounds. One, little Dougie McCheeseburger, had used the money to start up his restaurant “The Iris” as a sign of his devotion to the errant wife of the First Minister.

“I thought I was alone”, says McCheeseburger, “but she was funding every restaurant in the town, the dirty old bat. I feel used.”

O’Belch said that she had created an illusion of good times for the industry: “It was all looking so good. Nobody even stopped to question how so many teenage boys were all of a sudden owning restaurants and running them, they just got on with it and they were doing so well. And then, all of a sudden, they started getting text messages from the First Minister’s wife saying that she wanted the money back.”

Robinson’s plan to dominate the restaurant trade appears to have backfired after a dodgy curry at one of her protégé’s restaurants. Amir Fling, whose six-month affair with Robinson came to an end after he allowed two gay people into his restaurant, said “what a terrible evening that was. I’d put too much chilli in her curry, and she was already fuming. Then my two friends Jeremy and Gus came into the restaurant, and she blew her top. Give me back my money, she started screaming, give me back my money.”

Robinson then racked up phone bills that ran into triple figures texting every restaurant in Northern Ireland, saying “if I had an affair with you, I want my money back.”

O’Belch concluded that the boom time is over now that Robinson has been found out: “We look a bit foolish really. Before Robinson, it was just chips and beans. During Robinson, it was jus and truffles. After Robinson, well I guess we’re just going to go back to chips and beans.”