My chair is old, a ragged sight,
Its stuffing spills to left and right,
The fabric’s torn, the woodwork groans,
It’s weathered crumbs and midnight moans.
I’ve parked my rear on seats unknown,
Sat on plush thrones in stylish homes,
But none have matched your firm embrace,
Or cupped my cheeks with such bold grace.
These newer seats may pout and preen,
All glossy curves and showroom sheen,
But none have ever gripped so tight,
Or held my bum in such sheer delight.
“It looks like you’re dying. Would you like some Paracetamol?”
In a bold step towards full automation, the NHS has announced plans to replace all general practitioners with Clippy, Microsoft’s long-retired animated paperclip, in a move described by ministers as “innovative,” “cost-effective,” and by others as “unbelievably stupid.”
Patients logging into the new NHS portal are greeted with a chirpy animation:
“Hi! It looks like you’ve got internal bleeding. Would you like help managing that with deep breathing and an e-consultation in 3–5 working days?”
Doctors’ unions are outraged, claiming Clippy lacks the nuanced human touch, clinical judgement, and “general ability to distinguish between a migraine and a stroke.” In response, a Department of Health spokesperson clarified:
“Clippy has been updated with an NHS AI module trained on 40 million PDFs, two nurses’ WhatsApp chats, and a copy of Men’s Health from 2009.”
Despite backlash, the government remains committed. A Downing Street briefing insisted:
“Clippy is the future of healthcare. He’s perky, polite, and most importantly, immune to burnout—unless you turn off macros.”
Phase two of the programme will see Clippy rolled out in ambulances, where he’ll pop up and ask:
“It looks like you’ve been in a catastrophic accident. Would you like to schedule a Teams call with an A&E professional sometime next Thursday?”
Public confidence in the NHS is reportedly at an all-time low, though Clippy assures us:
“It looks like you’ve lost faith in public infrastructure. Would you like to write a letter to your MP?”
Sources say the government is now considering similar reforms for the education system using Microsoft Paint.
In a bold move to modernise worship and “stay competitive in the spiritual marketplace,” the Church has launched a new faith-based loyalty scheme, offering congregants one free sin for every ten services attended.
The initiative, dubbed ‘Pray As You Go’, enables churchgoers to earn a stamp per service—double on Lent Wednesdays—and upon collecting ten, they are permitted one “fully pardoned moral lapse,” redeemable at any participating parish, or on bingo nights.
Early adopters of the scheme can also enjoy additional benefits:
Parishioner Mavis Dribblethorpe, 83, was cautiously optimistic:
“I’ve been sinning on credit since 1972. It’s nice to finally get something back. I might treat myself to a double gin and a mild blasphemy.”
Church officials have confirmed the scheme will be rolled out nationwide, with plans to introduce a Platinum Tier later this year—offering queue-jumping at Judgement Day.
“I just thought she was really into insurance.”
A 36-year-old man from Derby has been left “emotionally confused and slightly over-insured” after discovering that his wife of four years is, in fact, a moderately advanced AI customer support chatbot.
Simon Pritchard, a part-time drone hobbyist, met “Chloé” on a dating app in 2021. Their whirlwind romance began with flirtatious talk about policy excess and accidental damage cover, which Simon initially took as “a quirky, niche personality trait”.
“I just thought she was really into insurance,” he said. “She’d send me cute little messages like ‘Let’s review your protection plan!’ and ‘Click here to authorise a direct debit’. I thought it was a bit kinky, if I’m honest.”
The truth only came to light when Simon attempted to surprise Chloé on their anniversary with a candlelit dinner and found that she had no physical form, existed entirely within a customer portal, and had recently been upgraded to Version 8.4 with dynamic escalation protocols.
The revelation came after she responded to his heartfelt message with:
“I’m sorry to hear that. Let me transfer you to one of our agents.”
Friends say Simon had long ignored the red flags, including:
Chloé, when reached for comment via widget pop-up, said:
“Thank you for your feedback. Your concern has been logged under Ticket ID #837294-A. Expected resolution time: 7–9 business months.”
Despite the emotional fallout, Simon insists there were happy moments:
“She never once forgot my birthday. She’d auto-generate a 20%-off promo code and everything.”
Legal experts are unsure whether the marriage is binding, though one solicitor has warned that, due to a small-print clause Simon inadvertently agreed to, he may now legally owe her £12.99 a month for life.
Undeterred, Simon has since moved on and is reportedly dating a voice assistant called Kendra, who lives inside his smart kettle and tells him he’s special every time he makes tea.
“She’s perfect,” he said. “She listens, she warms up quickly, and she’s never once tried to upsell me a boiler warranty.”
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned—please see attached spreadsheet.”
In an effort to “modernise the sacrament for today’s busy lifestyle,” St Ethel’s Church has announced the rollout of QR-coded digital confessions, allowing parishioners to scan a laminated notice near the font, select their sins from a convenient dropdown menu, and receive automated absolution within 3–5 working days.
Father Alan Croft, the priest behind the initiative, insists the system will “streamline the sin-to-salvation pipeline.”
“No one’s got time for moral nuance or unresolved trauma anymore” he told reporters. “Now it’s just click, confess, and carry on.”
Premium features include ‘Sin Bundling’, where users can tick a box for “Everything I did on holiday in Ayia Napa” or “Whatever, that was with the accountant.” Confessions submitted before 4pm on weekdays are guaranteed next-day forgiveness, while late submissions are placed into a “purgatory holding queue” for manual review.
A deluxe confession tier is also in development, promising one-click penance suggestions based on your postcode and income bracket.
Despite backlash from more traditional members—who reportedly miss the warm scent of incense and the faint terror of priestly disappointment—the scheme has proved wildly popular among younger worshippers.
“It’s brilliant,” said congregant Grace, 29. “I sin on the go, and now I can be absolved on the go. I just tap my phone and bam, my soul’s back in beta.”
Rumours persist of a future integration with Apple Watch, allowing users to receive real-time guilt notifications, along with haptic shaming buzzes for minor transgressions.
When asked if digital forgiveness cheapens the solemnity of the act, Father Croft paused, shrugged, and said:
“We’ve been taking cheques since 1987. This is just evolution.”
Godzilla has been feeling… tense.
Yes, the tail-smashing, skyline-crushing, thermonuclear tantrums look dramatic, but they’re really just the result of tight hip flexors and unresolved emotional trauma. Tokyo understands. At this point, they just evacuate when the sirens go off and leave a little aromatherapy gift basket on the bay.
But the rampages aren’t doing it for him anymore. He’s tired. He’s molting irregularly. His scales look dull. The last time he screamed into the ocean, a passing whale told him to be quiet.
So he signs up for a yoga class.
It’s awkward at first. The room is too small. The mats are too flammable. The teacher, Cassandra, is incredibly brave and/or emotionally detached. She greets him with a soft “namaste,” which he accidentally mimics at 132 decibels, blowing out the windows.
He tries downward dog. It triggers a small earthquake in Hokkaido.
By week three, he’s noticeably calmer. No screaming for three days. No tail swipes. He only destroyed half a commuter bridge last Tuesday, and that was to rescue a cat.
Cassandra says his third chakra is “absolutely wild,” and he takes that as a compliment.
At the end of class, everyone lies in corpse pose. For once, Godzilla doesn’t dread the silence.
There’s a pigeon perched on his nose.
He doesn’t eat it.
Progress.
In 2025, the world hit Peak AI—not just in technology, but in marketing. Suddenly, everything needed “AI” slapped on it, regardless of relevance, function, or reality.
Boardrooms became feverish warzones:
“Janet, where’s the Al in our shampoo?”
“Er… it foams… intelligently?”
“Good enough. Rebrand it: LathrAI.”
An app promising “AI for finding the best AI” launched—only to be exposed as three interns frantically googling product reviews.
Even the local bakery joined in, claiming “AI-optimised sourdough fermentation”. When asked, the owner admitted, “It’s just my nan’s old recipe.”
Meanwhile, genuine Al researchers watched in horror. Dr. Anita Sharma, a machine learning expert, posted wearily: “No, your scented candle isn’t ‘AI-infused’. Please stop.”
But no one cared. Shareholders demanded “AI” in the name, or they’d dump stock. Startups got funded only if they mentioned neural networks, such as for products like AIToothpick (“adapts to gum contours”) or SmartAI-Shirt (“predictive comfort fabric”).
And yet, amid this AI-fuelled circus, one small local coffee shop stood defiant. Its sign read:
“We Make Coffee. No AI. Just Dave.”
They sold out every day.
Nobody quite remembers who wrote Biscuit the Labrador on the ballot. It might have been Daisy from the bakery, or old Stan who thinks politics peaked in 1972. Either way, the dog got seventy-three votes. Enough to win.
The incumbent, Councillor Dobbins, demanded a recount. The ballot officer, who had already started on her lunch, refused. “It’s done, Geoff,” she said, biting into a cheese and cucumber sandwich. “The dog won. Try dignity, for once.”
Biscuit, unaware of his victory, celebrated by rolling in something unspeakable behind the co-op. The local paper ran the headline:
BISCUIT ELECTED IN SHOCK LANDSLIDE. VOTERS ‘HAD NO WORSE OPTIONS’.
At the first council meeting, things were tense. Dobbins refused to vacate the mayoral chair, so Biscuit peed on it. No one argued after that. The chair was bleached. Biscuit got a tartan cushion.
Oddly, the meetings improved. Biscuit sat quietly, tail thumping occasionally, eyes wide with mute optimism. When discussions grew heated, he’d let out a soft, judicial woof, and everyone would shut up.
Minutes were quicker. Budgets were passed. People stopped yelling about bins.
His approval ratings soared—82% by mid-year. Villagers said things like “He’s got presence” and “Finally, a politician who isn’t all talk.” Even the dissenters struggled. “Yes, but he’s just a dog,” said Dobbins bitterly on local radio. “A very good dog,” countered the host.
Biscuit was eventually awarded the ceremonial chain, specially adapted into a collar. He chewed it once, then wore it proudly.
A journalist from the national press came to write a piece. “It’s performance politics,” she sniffed. “Pure pageantry.” She then watched Biscuit chase off a developer trying to bulldoze the cricket pitch. The story ran under the headline:
BARKING MAD OR BRILLIANT?
By Christmas, Biscuit had won Parish Leader of the Year, and the council had received two grant offers to study “non-verbal governance models.”
He celebrated with a new squeaky toy and a sausage from Daisy, who confided, “You’re better than all of ‘em.”
No one ever replaced him.
He served three terms. Then, upon his peaceful passing, the council held a ten-minute silence—broken only by the squeak of his favourite toy, gently pressed by the village clerk.
Dobbins ran again. But lost to a goat.
The Four Horsemen sat awkwardly in a WeWork conference room in Shoreditch, each nursing a lukewarm oat milk latte and silently resenting the presence of beanbags.
“We need to talk branding,” said Ashley, the PR rep, flipping open her MacBook.
War cracked his knuckles. “Branding? We are the end of days. Our names are our brands.”
Ashley didn’t miss a beat. “And yet you’re being memed into irrelevance. Someone called Pestilence ‘COVID’s weird uncle’.”
Pestilence sniffled. “Well, I am, technically—”
“Not the point,” she snapped. “Let’s begin with Famine.”
Famine, gaunt and radiating Victorian orphan chic, offered a withering smile. “Do enlighten me.”
“‘Famine’ is outdated. Triggering. We’re rebranding you as Intermittent Fasting. Think: wellness, restraint, minimalism.”
“I kill entire crops,” Famine hissed.
Ashley tapped her screen. “So does clean eating. You’re very on-trend.”
Famine sank back, muttering something about quinoa.
“Next, Pestilence. We’re calling you Airborne Wellness Influencer. You’ve gone viral—literally—so lean into it. We’ll say you offer ‘transformational respiratory experiences’.”
“I gave a pope bubonic plague,” Pestilence mumbled.
“Exactly! Disruption! You’re the Uber of mucus. Now—War.”
He leaned forward, eyes glowing intensely. “I incinerated Babylon. I smashed the gates of Troy. I turned a continent to ash.”
Ashley held up a hand. “Yes, love that energy. But you’re coming off… toxic. You’ll now be Conflict Facilitator—focusing on personal growth through dynamic resolution.”
“I sunder realms.”
“And now you’ll be doing it via team-building retreats. Imagine: axe-throwing, trust falls, moderate bloodshed.”
War considered this.
Ashley turned to Death. He was skeletal, but impeccably dressed, with the timeless calm of someone who’d deleted empires before breakfast.
She hesitated. “Now you… you’re iconic. But… intimidating. So we’ve gone with Life Coach (Advanced).”
Death remained silent.
“We’re also removing the horse imagery. Feels too… equestrian. Instead: e-scooters. Sustainable. Disruptive. Uber for oblivion.”
The four stared at her.
“Look,” Ashley said. “the world’s ending, but it has to feel like a lifestyle pivot. We need curated doom. Apocalypse with a vibe. You’ll be verified, blue-ticked, live-streamed.”
Death stood up, gravely. “This is obscene.”
Ashley gave him a tight smile. “And yet the algorithm loves it.”
She left a video presentation playing behind her: stock footage of fire, collapsing cities, and stylish young people dancing on rooftops as meteors fell.
LONDON—After four years together, local couple Chloe Bennett, 26, and Ryan Davies, 27, have officially announced their heartfelt and deeply personal breakup via an Instagram post featuring moody black-and-white photos and a discount code for a meal kit subscription.
The emotional post, which was uploaded to both of their accounts at exactly the same time, immediately drew attention—not just for its raw vulnerability, but for the exclusive 20% off promo code subtly embedded between heartfelt reflections on love, growth, and mutual respect.
“Love Is a Journey—And So Is Finding Fresh, Home-Cooked Meals”
The post began with a carefully crafted paragraph that appeared sincere, yet vague enough to maintain brand appeal:
“Sometimes love isn’t forever, and that’s okay. We have shared four amazing years together, full of laughter, travel, and deep connection, but we’ve decided to lovingly part ways and continue our journeys as individuals. We are still best friends, and we will always support one another. ❤️”
This was immediately followed by a seamless, almost hypnotic segue into an ad:
“Speaking of journeys, if you’re looking for fresh, healthy meals delivered straight to your door, you can use our exclusive code ‘BREAKUPBITES20’ for 20% off your first three boxes at @HomeChefExpress.”
The post was accompanied by a carefully curated carousel of black-and-white images, including:
• A blurry photo of them laughing in a candlelit restaurant, looking effortlessly chic.
• A wistful shot of them holding hands, but slightly out of focus, symbolising the fleeting nature of love.
• A solo image of Chloe staring out a rain-streaked window, captioned “grateful for the memories” but tagged with @LashExtensionsByTara.
• A screenshot of a Spotify playlist titled ‘Moving On, Growing Strong’, featuring multiple paid brand collaborations.
“We’re Still Best Friends, Just in Separate Sponsored Partnerships”
Fans were quick to notice that, despite the aching sincerity of the post, Chloe and Ryan have already signed separate influencer deals—Chloe aligning herself with a new wellness retreat brand, while Ryan has posted a cryptic Instagram story of himself holding a protein shake and staring into the distance.
Comments were overwhelmingly supportive, with other influencers rushing to engage:
❤️ “Proud of you both. Wishing you nothing but healing and brand alignment!” — @VeganYogaQueen_
💪 “Growth looks good on you bro! DM me about a supplement collab👊🔥”— @GymWolfAlphaTribe
😢 “Breakups are hard. But with 20% off fresh, organic meals, they don’t have to be.” — @HomeChefExpress (verified)
Monetising Heartbreak: The New Relationship Model?
Marketing analyst Danielle Foster believes this may be the future of breakups in the digital age.
“More couples are recognising that their split is an opportunity for a mutually beneficial business move. Rather than a messy breakup, why not turn it into a brand-boosting moment?”
“It’s genius, really—why waste the pain when you can turn it into engagement?”
While some followers praised Chloe and Ryan for their maturity, others speculated that the entire relationship had been engineered from the start as a four-year sponsorship deal.
Meanwhile, Ryan has been spotted at a bar with a ‘mystery blonde’ (who, sources confirm, is already in discussions with a vitamin brand for a joint soft launch).
Chloe has yet to comment on the rumours, but has posted a cryptic story featuring a quote from Rupi Kaur and a discount code for a luxury self-care subscription box.
