Christ on a nuclear pogo stick, the King’s country is losing its collective mind again. Behind Whitehall’s solemn stone mask and beneath the King’s empty throne, some very twitchy men in very expensive suits are dusting off Cold War manuals and scribbling paranoid notes in the margins.
The War Book — that dusty relic of Reagan-era hysteria — has been pried open like a crypt, and inside? A blueprint for the apocalypse. They’re calling it a “homeland defence plan.” Let’s face it, it’s a fucking suicide note with a smudged royal letterhead.
Sources — nervous functionaries with trembling hands and darting eyes — whisper of a classified dossier thicker than a Friday night blonde on a pub crawl up north somewhere.
Missiles, nukes, supersonic fucking missiles, cyber hell storms, undersea cable severing, radio blackouts, and enough bureaucratic chaos to choke a Ministry.
The callous bastards are updating plans drawn up when Tony Blair still had George W. Bush up his bottom — because the Kremlin’s gone full Bond villain and started snarling threats at London like a stray rabid dog with a nuke in its throat.
They’re talking bunkers, people. Real ones. For the Cabinet. For the Royals. For the BBC’s last sad voice to mutter, “Keep calm” as mushroom clouds bloom like satanic roses over Westminster. Sizewell, Hinckley, Heysham — ticking radioactive love letters to the motherland. One bad morning and they’ll be glowing like disco balls.
Meanwhile, Whitehall has cold feet and hot pants. Defence chiefs are whining that Russia’s hypersonic freak-rockets would roast the UK like a stuck piggy at a biker rally. They want their own Iron Dome — maybe call it the Iron Teacup. But it’s too late. The war game’s already rigged, and the players are drunk on 21st-century paranoia.
Let’s be real: cyberwarfare is the new blitz. No air raid sirens this time, just blinking cursors and blackout screens. MI5’s top dog, Ken “the Quiet Knife” McCallum, says hostile states are sniffing around like wolves at a butcher shop. Gas terminals? Nuclear stations? All wide open. In our current pathetic state, we couldn’t protect a chip shop on Friday night, let alone the national fucking grid.
If Mad Vlad the Tiny in Moscow gets twitchy, the BBC will be airing public service announcements between reruns of EastEnders, telling the public how to duck under dining tables while Parliament smoulders and Westminster Abbey becomes a charcoal sketch.
A risk assessment, published in January, found a successful attack was “likely to result in millions of civilian fatalities as well as members of the emergency services”, cause serious economic damage and disrupt essential services. No fucking shit! It’s as if they realise that we’re all sitting ducks on this tiny island waiting to be made into roasted radioactive glow-in-the-dark meat sandwiches.
This isn’t a drill. It’s apocalyptic kabuki theatre, and the actors are running out of cue cards. There are murmurs of rationing, roadblocks, judges with emergency powers, and Cabinet ministers handed the keys to regional fiefdoms. The whole goddamn UK carved up like medieval England — except now with Wi-Fi.
And just when you think it couldn’t get worse, they remind us: this time, there’s no Royal Yacht to spirit the Windsors away. Just some souped-up Range Rovers and an underground hidey-hole in the Cotswolds. God save the King? God help us all.
The question hanging in the smoky air like nerve gas: Is Britain prepared for war? Ha! You might as well ask if a pigeon is prepared for a chess match. Britain is truly fuckified.
Keep Calm, and Simply Die!
