Dear Readers,

A few months ago, we posted an article which boldly claimed that Nick Clegg eats babies. In the article, we detailed at length how the Liberal Democrat leader and now Deputy Prime Minister would stalk the streets of Sheffield slavering at the chops in search of newborn blood.

We now realise that we were correct, and would like to apologise. The Daily Shame strives to make every effort to report lies, falsehood and exaggeration to satiate our readers’ lust for something other than the truth, and we regret that this aberration may tarnish our reputation for not telling the truth. We apologise wholeheartedly for any disappointment that our article back in April may have caused.

You see, we thought it would be funny. We thought it would be amusing to poke fun at the establishment’s scoriating tirade on a young man who speaks dangerous foreign languages and risked turning the General Election into something other than a Tory victory. We believed that by exaggerating the voracity of the establishment’s campaign against the Liberal Democrat leader, we would potentially amuse a few people. We had no idea that the accusations were true.

Nick Clegg does indeed eat babies, and he does indeed take part in Satanic rituals in which he worships the Lord Beelzebub. We also reported that he burns virgins on Hampstead Heath every Saturday night, and this is also unfortunately true. He also believes that British people should be thrown out of their own country and replaced with paedophile immigrant Muslims in burqas and Polish benefits claimants. We reported this believing it to be untrue, and we are shocked to discover that this is what he plans to unleash on the country.

Worst of all, however, we revealed that he ridiculously believed the war in Iraq to be illegal. What a nonce.

We have launched an internal investigation into these truthful reports, and can assure our loyal readers that in future, all sources will be rigorously checked for lack of facts, inaccuracy and shortage of detail. We have created a number of processes through which we will ensure that no truth whatsoever shall be reported on these pages, and once more, we are truly, very, deeply, horribly sorry.

Yours,

The Daily Shame

Slimline cat

Is it just me, or do vets not know their arses from their elbows these days? There I was, right, sat on the vet’s examination table – not a happy pussy, I tell you – and he’s banging on about how I’ve got furballs and wotnot. Furballs? Does NOBODY understand me? I’m bulemic, for the love of God. I eat, I puke, I stay slim. How else do you think I’ve got myself into this fine, slimline state? Furballs, indeed.

And what do my stupid owners do? They’re calling me “poor tiddles” and other such nonsense, and asking the vet if there’s anything he can give me. What next? Suppositories? What a joke. So apparently I’m on a prescription that they’re going to hide in my food that will break down the furballs and make them easier to expel. A prescription that I will eat, and oh yes I will eat it – looking happy as Larry – I might purr a bit – rub my face up against their legs to make them think they’ve done right by me, and then I’ll go and puke it up in the back garden.

You see, I’m a slimline cat. I’m not like those fat cats that loll around the back garden barely able to shift their huge girths so that they can catch a bird or a mouse or something. Nup, those fat cats get fed shitloads of sachet food whereas I’m a biscuits kinda guy. Or at least, I was a guy until they chopped my nads off. Now I’m a biscuits kinda eunech-cat. But I’m slimline and I’m staying that way. The girls like me that way, too. Not that I can do anything about it, but hey.

That’s why, whenever I eat something, I make sure that most of it comes right back up. And I’ve been doing it for months – nobody suspected a thing until my stupid owner’s five-year-old stupid child overheard me the other day. There I was, having a good old retch behind the bins, and she runs back in, yelling “Mr Tiddles is being sick! Mr Tiddles is being sick!”

So, naturally, I pegged it. Well what else does a cat do when its owners are coming for it? You run, don’t you. After all, being a slimline cat isn’t all vomiting and bulemia – there’s a lot of exercise involved too. So there I was, hiding out in the neighbours’ garage for a couple of days, and I thought to myself – hey, I can’t go vomming because they might hear me. So I had to hold back on the old bulemia – found myself putting on a few pounds, so I thought – what the heck, let’s have a puke. That’s when they caught me.

Oh, and they were all nice about it, too, stroking my head (God I hate that, you’d think that a wagging tail might be an indicator) and telling me that they’ve missed me. But what happened then? Straight to the man in white for a thermometer up the arse and the rather wild diagnosis that I have furballs.

Furballs, my arse.

Joseph Aboyomi won “Young Scammer of the Year” for his portrayal of the widow of the recently deceased King Moses Odiaka. The judges particularly praised his grit and determination, with a highly targeted Direct Mail campaign that reaped a 0.0001% conversion rate, and a return on investment of £300,000. As the widow of the recently deceased King Moses Odiaka, Aboyomi delighted critics. One said that “it was reminiscent of a young Julia Roberts, full of pathos and guile, a majestic performance,” while another said “Joseph captured that particularly unique combination of grief and neediness.”

“I can’t believe I’ve won Young Scammer of the Year,” beamed a tearful Joseph. “I’d like to thank my parents, who don’t know anything about this, and the good people in the Nigerian government who never do anything about scamming. Without them, none of this would have been possible.”

“Scam of the Year” went to Benny Ewome for his “Granny Sting”, which saw him scam more than twenty silver surfers in the UK within one week. In fact, at one point, Benny even had two grandmothers scamming the others for him, something that took even him by surprise:

“I didn’t think it would pay off,” said Ewome. “But after I’d cleared out their bank accounts, they set about clearing the bank accounts of other grannies. It was almost a pyramid scheme, I guess. Perhaps this will be the model for scamming in the future – who knows? I’ve made myself over half a million with this scam, and it could change the game forever, so yes, I’m pleased with the award. Now I just sit back and watch the money pour in.”

Judge Aiyegbeni Modu said that this year’s scammers were some of the best he’s ever seen, adding: “The quality is very high. Very high indeed. We have seen many great ways of using ebay, gumtree or local classifieds sites, and some brilliant e-mails. One of my favourites was a young man who managed to juggle about fifty different characters. In fact, he was the guy who convinced Billy Crystal to come and host the Scammies, and he’s wiped out his bank account too! A rising star, one might say.”

However, the most emotional moment of the night was reserved for Mrs Mollycoddled, of Norwich, who won “Lifetime Achievement Award” for what the judges call her “unswerving dedication to paying Nigerian scammers for anything and everything”. Mrs Mollycoddled, who is often used by first-time scammers for training purposes, has given up almost every spare penny she has to Nigerian scammers, and was unable to attend the awards ceremony due to not knowing about it. However, scammers have installed a webcam in Mrs Mollycoddled’s living room, and the 5,000-strong audience gave her a tearful, standing ovation as she pottered around making a cup of tea.

“My visit to India comes at a time of grave importance,” beamed Hague. “We need to take firm action against these restless natives, otherwise we’ll lose the Empire, don’t you know! 13 years of Labour has effectively lost us control of the British Empire!” Hague then beckoned to one of his man servants to peel him a grape, while another knelt down in front of him to act as a table. He continued, grape in mouth:

“India is of huge strategic value to the Empire, so it is vital that we quell this highly unusual thirst for personal and individual success that they seem to have gained during Labour’s control, and get them back to being completely and utterly servile in the name of the Queen and myself. These days, they have no respect! I walked down a high street in Delhi, and nobody got out of my way! People were bumping into me or trying to sell me stuff.

“I’m Lord Viceroy of India, Preserver of the Taj Mahal and a few other things, I can’t quite remember the full title right now… in the good old days, they’d have been bowing down in front of me!”

Hague’s visit to India has been mired in controversy from the start. The Foreign Secretary stepped off the plane at Indira Ghandi International Airport wearing a safari suit and sporting a rifle, which was immediately seized by what Hague calls “disrespectful” customs officials. Hague then proceeded to berate airport officials for failing to shine his shoes, and asked for one to be sacked because he was speaking on his mobile phone instead of kow-towing to the new Lord Viceroy of India, Preserver of the Taj Mahal, First Marquess Hague of Madras and Imbiber of Kingfisher.

“The Lord Viceroy is very angry,” said Hague’s adviser Ronseal Barrowthorpe III of Basingstoke. “The locals are out to get him. Last night, he tried to order a Chicken Balti, and nobody had a clue what he was talking about. They were definitely pretending. Everyone knows what a Balti is. Lord Hague is furious that the Labour Government has let the Empire slip through our fingers to such an extent. We have had 13 years of Tony Blair and Gordon Brown, and the Empire has gone to the dogs under Labour.”

Hague’s team have been trying to arrange a tribal dance for the Lord Viceroy to attend, in an attempt to appease him. Locals, however, are confused: “Who is this funny little white man?” said Arun, a multi-millionnaire from Bombay.

“It’s disgusting,” spat Cameron, before calling his butler for a mint julep. “Setting up a tribute page for someone who set up a tribute page for a murderer is probably worse than murder itself. In fact, it’s worse than homicide. The person who set up this tribute page to Siobhan O’Dowd is a sicko. Plain and simple, and if I see a tribute page to the man who set up the tribute page to the woman who set up the tribute page for Raoul Moat, I’ll ask the public to create a new law.”

Nick Clegg said something similar but nobody really cares anymore. At the same time, Facebook released a press statement saying that “it’s a social networking site”, before adding, “live with it.”

Ramshackle Armstrong, the man who set up the tribute page to Siobhan O’Dowd, is currently in hiding after vigilante gangs threatened to tear him limb from limb. Daily Mail reader Barry Monculpue travelled 182 miles to batter the crap out of the man who set up a tribute page to the woman who set up a tribute page to Raoul Moat.

“I’ll eat him alive,” dribbled Monculpue. “That sick, sick bastard. Now I’m no racist, but I’d rather have immigrant paedos in burquas come over here and burgle us senseless, steal our jobs and turn us into a Muslim Nazi state than sickos like this bastard. We’re not safe as long as he’s alive.”

Armstrong’s last Facebook message before he took flight was a conciliatory one, saying “I do not condone setting up a tribute page to a murderer, nor do I condone setting up a tribute page to a woman who set up a tribute page to a murderer. It’s a bad thing to do and I’m very sorry.”

The Siobhan O’Dowd tribute site currently has approximately 4 members.

Ben Gobbin, Head of Events at some Marketing company or other, said that his company was approached to “liven up” the Orange marches and broaden its appeal: “There’s a great tradition there, and besides the fighting that traditionally takes place, there’s a real heritage. But there’s a common perception that the Orange marches are a little, well… how can I put it? Dull? After all, marching has that kind of ‘one-two-one-two’ feel to it. What we want to do is introduce a freestyle section to the march.”

Teenagers have already said that they will be taking part next year. Donald Trousers from Portadown said “Me Dad always takes part so he does, but not me. I don’t like marching, it’s kinda boring. But when I heard they’re going to introduce freestyle, I thought – hey, me and me mates would like a bit of that. So I’m going to be practising me breakdancing, while Daz is going to do some handstands. Kerry’s up for a bit of hip-hop while Wierd Alan is practising his groinal thrust walking manoeuvre, which is controversial but great.”

“I can’t wait for next year,” he added.

Traditionalists are appalled at the idea of introducing freestyle marching. Ian Paisley told reporters that it would “never happen even over my dead body”, promising to maul anyone not doing the simple “one-two-one-two” marching, with his own teeth: “I’ll kill them so I will. This is a march, not a rave. If I see any bastard gyrating their hips or thrusting their groins, or even doing a f-cking handstand, I’ll tear them apart with my own bare hands.”

Professionals have indicated that they may be interested in taking part, leading to fears that the Orange marches will be somewhat diluted. Gold medal freestyle walker Drainpipe Oldham-Pickles said that he “was really looking forward to a new challenge”, and that next year’s Orange marches may represent the biggest challenge yet: “I’m always looking for something new. Only last year, I freestyled it across the whole of Somalia, so the Orange marches should be a doddle. However, I’d be doing it out of respect for the other marchers, so I’d have to tone it down a bit. Obviously I wouldn’t do the Charlie Chaplin routine.”

Gorilla

As one of the world’s pre-eminent gorillas, I know a thing or two about tag. I remember running around the cage as a youngster, like a mad chimp playing tag with the other chimps, completely unaware of the centuries of tradition that have preceded our innocent game.

You see, this rich heritage of tag runs through the generations. My grandfather played it – his father played it – his father played it and no doubt his father played it too. You get the picture – we’re tag freaks, us gorillas. We love it. We can’t get enough of the game. I just can’t believe that you humans have only just found out that we play it. Christ, I mean, every year in London Zoo, we hold the World Gorilla Tag championships, and you didn’t even notice?

As chimps, we’re taught all about the great Tag champions of the past – from Hairy Bert in the 1700s through to modern day greats such as Banana Barry or Chuckles. The game runs through our veins, man. It’s in our blood.

You loll around in a world of your own, you lot. Here we are, maintaining our long tradition of tag, improving our techniques, honing our skills, and you just sit there thinking – ah, they’re hairy and they eat bananas. Yeah, I’m a hairy gorilla, and I eat bananas (I love ‘em, please send some more), but there’s more to us than that. We play tag loads, but we play other games too – I believe you’ve copied them, too. When we’re really bored, we play a game called “I Spy” – although there’s not much to spy once you’ve been round the cage twenty times already. I Spy something beginning with B – is it banana, or banana? No, you hairless bunch of freaks, it’s “brat” for that horrible little shit of a kid who keeps throwing sweets at us.

As grown-ups, we move away from Tag (don’t have the energy) and play more intellectual games such as Scrabble or Cluedo. My favourite, though, is charades. I love the face on those dumb humans when we’re playing charades. Hahahaha. It’s ace. There I am trying to express “Sleepless in Seattle” through the medium of mime, and you’re all standing there thinking “Aw, they’re gorillas and they’re having fun”.

Some of the more modern gorillas like to play poker, but heck, have you ever played poker with a gorilla? I’ll stick to bridge, thanks, much more civil.

The report published today, entitled “Polar Bears are telling lies about climate change”, highlights the lengths polar bears will go to convince us of global warming. Researchers discovered one polar bear whose application for an iceberg extension was repeatedly turned down by the authorities, and consequently posed in a number of photographs looking sad and forlorn for National Geographic magazine. The polar bear, known as “Pete”, is alleged to have received huge payments from National Geographic and climate change activists.

“This Pete character has been taking payments from a number of sources,” claimed Murdoch, “most notably a shady bunch of climate change ‘activists’ who want us to believe that the ice caps are actually melting. Pete lives on a huge iceberg just north of Canada, and he’s been applying for an extension for years.”

“In short,” he continued, “these polar bears are taking the mickey out of us. They try to look all cute and cuddly, but when we approached Pete for a statement, he turned on us and severely mauled one of our junior researchers who is still in a critical condition. So, you see – not only are they crafty, but they’re malicious, too.”

In an apparent riposte to the report, the group “Polar Bears For Change” (PBFC) issued its own report highlighting the plight of the Polar Bear. PBFC’s Chief Bear, Dave, told the Daily Shame: “I remember the good old days when I was growing up, there was ice everywhere. They were great days. My parents had a massive iceberg just off Norway – they saved up for years, and now there’s next to nothing left of it. Nowadays, a Polar Bear considers himself lucky if he’s got 50 square metres of ice and a couple of plates of fish a day, and all those Polar Bears who invested in the good days are all in negative equity. Look at these pictures of really sad bears. Look at them. Look really hard.”

“I’ve been a fool,” he said, reading from a prepared statement at a press conference. “I’ve been a damn fool and I’ve let everyone down. Not only was I completely and utterly sober, I was actually drinking carrot and wheatgrass juice until 10 in the morning with my wife. There is no excuse for my actions, and I apologise wholeheartedly. I now have to face my children, who know that I was sober at work, and I do not know how I can live with that shame. I now return to my constituency whereupon I shall endeavour to continue my work as a drunk.”

There are suggestions that von Rochester has been coerced by the party into turning his sobriety problem into a public consultation. Von Rochester himself added: “In fact, I shall be asking my constituents which drinks they want me to get drunk on, as part of our new openness thing.”

Fellow MPs have lambasted Von Rochester for his appalling sobriety. Liam Fox slurred: “He’s a f-cking disgrace. I tell you what, I’m challenging him to a fight – a fight, yes that’s right, a fight. Me and him, mano a mano, outside on the lawn outside Westminster. Come on Von Rochie or whatever your name is – think you can be a Tory MP without being off your bloody head? Bastard.”

Theresa May swigged back her eighteenth gin and tonic before launching into a tirade, saying “it’s people like him that make it just Britain – not Great Britain – not Amazing F-cking Britain, just Britain. He makes me sick. Or that might just be the gin. Wha’ever. I saw him, right. I saw him walking IN A STRAIGHT LINE down this corridor in Westminster. He wasn’t even singing about green goblins or anything, he was just – sober. There was no vomit dribbling down his chin, his tie was straight. Everything was wrong. He wasn’t slumped in a corner or passed out in a chair… he doesn’t deserve to be a Tory.”

Thrush-on-Cheeks resident Patsy Gibberish said that “it’s high time we were able to recall our MPs. The good name of Thrush-on-Cheeks has been besmirched by the selfish, sober actions of our Member of Parliament. We all remember our last MP, and how he fondled women’s bottoms and ran round the village square with his pants down. That’s what we expect, not this sober, pants-up, tie-wearing, carrot-juice-drinking crap.”

Von Rochester is expected to drink-drive back up to his constituency tomorrow where he will spend the entire day swilling port and whisky on the orders of Tory leader David Cameron, before launching himself face-first into the village pond wearing suspenders and a gas mask.

Bear

Hey, I’m a bear, right. I’m covered in hair, I’m a little aggressive, and I like eating honey. Especially from Land Rovers when the windows are down – or not, depending on my mood. I’m also a bit up and down – one minute I’m crazily happy, the next I’m retreating back to my cave feeling like the world’s going to cave in on me at any minute. But I tell you what really gets my goat – really winds me up, man. It’s people who think that because I’m bipolar, I’m actually a polar bear.

I’m not! I love the wild, man. I love the forests and the Rockie Mountains – I love jars of honey, catching fish and sleeping for long, long periods… and I love beating up humans. Them icebergs ain’t for me and you’d never catch me anywhere north of the Arctic circle – them polar bears are crazy, man, I tell you. Mad. And all they ever eat is fish – I mean, I love a bit of sushi – I love it as much as the next bear, but every meal? Not for me – I’m a fan of the Jamie Oliver diet – a bit of vegetation, a bit of meat, a bit of fish – wazz it all up and you’ve got one wicked meal. Wash it all down with some bonzo river water – there’s nothing better. Fish three meals a day, though – what’s all that about?

So it makes me really mad to hear people saying – “hey, he’s a bipolar bear, he’s from the Arctic” or “hey, he’s a bipolar bear, maybe he’s got his winter coat on?” What a load of cock! The other day, someone said, “hey, if he’s a bipolar bear, does that mean he likes both male and female polar bears?”

Heck man, no it does not! Let’s get one thing straight here – I may have moodswings that go up and down more often than a whore’s knickers on a particularly busy night, but I’m a ladies’ bear, pure and simple. In fact, I’d rather be called a polar bear than a bi-bear – there’s such a thing as pride, you know! What with all of these “teddy bears” that you humans are so fond of, us bears have got a reputation to repair. Only the other day, I broke into a family vehicle and found this book called “Rupert the Bear” – who the bloody hell ever thought of calling a bear Rupert? That’s a totally gay bear.

No, bears are called “Brutus” or “Kong”, not “Rupert” or “Tarquin” or whatever monstrosities you humans are calling us now. And hey, I can talk on behalf of the polar bears now, we don’t want to be part of your “save the planet” bullcrap. Yeah, we’ve all seen those pictures of polar bears on little icebergs about to drown because you lot are ruining the planet with your SUVs and your 4×4s. Leave us out of it, man!

So remember, if you come across me in the forest one day, I’m neither bi nor polar – I’m bipolar, so you’d better pray I’m in one of my good moods!