What Would Blackadder Say About Chancellor Reeves?

BALDRICK: My lord, I think the country’s gone and maxed out its credit card on magic beans and a unicorn subscription.

BLACKADDER: Yes, Baldrick, and those beans are now being force-fed through the arse to working families, boiled in the devil’s gravy of yet more tax rises. Meanwhile, Her Chancellorness flits about Westminster like a tippling moth in a candle shop, promising fiscal discipline while juggling flaming debt torches blindfolded.

What was meant to be a sensible Spending Review turned out to be less “review,” more “spending,” with all the poise of a drunken giraffe on ice. Instead of sound financial stewardship, we got a Winter Fuel Fiasco, a £30 billion imperial fire sale of the Chagos Islands, and enough union handouts to fund a conga line through the Treasury.

She calls herself the “Iron Chancellor,” but under pressure she buckles faster than a belt on a randy sailor’s trousers – which is impressive, given they usually wear string. Promises were made – no new taxes, lower borrowing, pensioner protection – and then reversed with such frequency that even her U-turns are making U-turns.

The only constant in her beef-witted economic philosophy is inconsistency. It’s less “long-term plan” and more “improvised interpretive dance on a financial landmine.”

Even her own party now circle her like vultures eyeing a wilting pheasant. The unions sniff blood, Cabinet colleagues smell weakness, and the Prime Minister’s only economic strategy appears to be “pretend it’s not happening and shout about the NHS.”

And what do we get in return? An extra £200 billion in borrowing, £80 billion more in interest, and a front-row seat at the collapse of economic credibility. Her announcements are like a magician’s trick: “Here’s hundreds of billions in spending! And voilà! The public finances are fixed!” Sadly, the only thing disappearing is our stability.

BALDRICK: I have a cunning plan, my lord. We just pretend everything’s fine, and—

BLACKADDER: No, Baldrick. That is their plan.

Inflation has ballooned like an overfed mammering hippo. Growth is missing, presumed dead. Pensioners have been sacrificed like budgetary goats on the altar of pound sterling stability. The winter fuel U-turn? One minute pensioners were told to wear jumpers. Now, apparently, the economy’s so “robust” we can reverse that – though no one told the economists, who remain curled in a foetal position, whispering “God help us” into spreadsheets.

Business confidence? Rock bottom. Payrolls plummeting. Unemployment climbing like a joiner squirrel on Red Bull. And still, our rampallian Chancellor stands firm in her belief that only the government can create jobs – which is odd, given that every time they intervene, three more businesses fall into the Thames much like a heavy turd ejected from a peasant’s rank bottom. Plop!

Defence? We’re pledging 3% of GDP on national security… eventually. But first, we’re paying Mauritius billions to lease back our own island, while the global stage heats up faster than Angela Rayner’s flaming furry hamster.

And the sodden-witted Home Office? Drowning in asylum costs, while the number of illegal crossings soars. Though, don’t worry – they’ve formed a task force. Or was it a focus group? Either way, nothing’s happening.

Instead of facing the music, the Chancellor waltzes around blaming everyone else. But her socialist sashay of high spending, bloated borrowing and blunderous taxes leaves Britain wobbling on the edge of an economic banana skin.

I think I need to vomit, hand me that bucket Baldrick.

If we were in charge? No more growth-choking taxes, no more swollen parcel of bureaucratic dropsies bloated like a Baldrick breakfast of turnip. Just a good, old-fashioned revival of work, enterprise, and not spending money we haven’t got, that is, apart from at Mrs. Miggins’ Pie Shop.

But alas, the bill is here. Working families and businesses will pay it – in higher taxes, fewer chances, and a future built on IOUs and empty promises.

As for the Chancellor – she’s not just unaffordable. She’s unreturnable.