With Britain having missed its green energy generation targets for the umpteenth time running, the mood inside Downing Street has declined to one of sheer desperation. Rishi Sunak felt pressure to act. An infectious mood prevailed: Eat Out to Help Out, that contagiously grand success story of the Covid era, would rise re-spun as a fetid, electrifying phoenix.
“There was nothing else for it. We had to summon thousands of the nation’s heterosexual couples and have men devour their women’s vaginas on the lawns and tarmac outside Downing Street and Westminster. All ages and races welcome! Small dynamos would be attached at the base of women’s vaginal openings, the accumulated cunnilingus tongue-flicks generating a steady amperage for the National Grid, lickety-spit.” cried Rico Zaparino, an Italian spaghettaholic attendant at the scene.
Rishi wanted a repeat of the rank incompetence he’d displayed as Chancellor: with power cuts looming large on the stricken British state, health checks were absent at the sites. Yea, so many muffs and mouths alike went unsanitized before the licking ensued in the fullest splendour. Some, we are told, had a captivating stench of stale piss. Others simply huffed the vile musk of rotten furniture. All were dangerous.
“Frankly the notion the energy is green is dubious at best.” sniffed posho Tristan Hatheridge, “Cast your gaze: my wife’s vulva is pretty in pink, her emissions a perky shade of sublime translucence, her pubes a wistful brown reminiscent of an autumnal morn.”
Just as he finished reciting this poetic aria, a man jumped in from stage left armed with a vial of green food colouring. Pouring the contents upon the exposed vag, he turned to Tristan, obsequiously bowed, then jabbed a finger: “Have at it, your eco-Majesty.”
In true patriotic style, Rishi himself was to demonstrate the process on his wife. But just as Akshata Murty propped up her legs and positioned her saggy brown excuse, the Prime Minister began to break down from stress, screaming in a cracked voice:
“For God’s sake listen! Our identities and backgrounds are complete and utter lies! I’m not even married into a billionaire family! Akshata’s family don’t own Infosys, they’re just florists working out of Basildon! Listen: we’re Deep State political crisis actors; my father was a bookie from Lewisham and my mother is -“
Before Rishi could continue a doctor leapt in, white chloroform-soaked rag in hand: he firmly held said rag upon Rishi’s mouth. After a brief, withering struggle a floppy Rishi Sunak was bundled off by said attending doctor and three narky police officers. A spokesperson was later heard to announce: “He was feeling a little tired and emotional, but a quick stimulant jab and abrupt yanking away of the Downing Street pillows brought him right back to his rankly incompetent reality.”
It turned out in the end that the scheme (just like the first Eat Out to Help Out) was a ridiculously ill-conceived waste of time and life. The energy generated from the motioned vaginas was tiny just compared against transportation of participants across London to the cunnilingus sites. Basic mathematics and planning had again eluded Rishi and Co. – mere days later, the British nation was plunged into renewed darkness. Rishi might as well have been an agent working for Amit Shah’s BJP clique of nationalist flotsam for all the bad he did.