Whoops Apocalypse Page #3

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off HMS Shropshire and onto this ship.

In secret, to foil the enemy.

Bastards! They should never have

let her come in the first place.

This task force needs a Royal Princess

in the Wrens

like an outbreak of typhus!

Not at all, Your Royal Highness.

We're delighted to have you aboard.

Basically, one wants to be treated like any other

ordinary nursing officer. You understand.

No fuss or favours.

Absolutely not, ma'am. Of course.

This is your cabin.

Thank you.

If those two medical experiments from the press

get wind of this, we've had it.

It'll be like throwing raw meat

to a pack of jackals.

Don't worry, sir. We'll keep

Her Royal Highness well under wraps.

They won't even know she's on board.

- Argh!

- As I thought, Your Highness.

Strangulated hernia in the groin.

It'll have to be surgery.

Shave him, would you, ma'am?

I'll be back in five minutes.

Aaaargh!

- Aargh!

- Aaaargh!

- Aaaargh!

- Oh, my God.

It's not the fact, gentlemen, that one

of my soldiers has just been horribly castrated

by a member of Britain's Royal Family.

It is not even the fact that,

in the blind panic that followed,

a pair of Liptons tea bags were erroneously

sewn back into the patient's scrotum...

...and not discovered until three hours later,

when someone was rinsing out the teapot.

No, gentlemen.

This was the real coup de grce.

This dispatch I found not ten minutes ago

in the wire room.

"Holy chopped meat! Princess Wendy

went whittling with a razor yesterday

and had a ball.

Yes, sirree. Another young soldier

waved goodbye to his loved ones,

as Her Royal Highness

went crazy with the cut-throat

during a routine pre-op shave

on Britain's flagship HMS Lion,

where she was secretly transferred... "

Oh, holy godfathers! Is there any more classified

information you'd like to broadcast to the world?

You are a liability

to every man and woman in this fleet,

and I'm having you put off this ship

at the next island we come to!

I hope they whip the ass off you!

Lousy, stinking mothers.

Jesus!

The main stories this Friday evening.

Edna Burkavitz, the woman who secured

a lock of Frank Sinatra's hair in 1955,

has today sold it back to him

for an undisclosed sum.

And as the British task force

steams south for the Caribbean,

hopes are fading for a peaceful end

to the Santa Maya crisis. Details shortly.

Madam President.

What is it, Marv?

Priority Alpha, from the Pentagon.

Let me have it.

Santa Maya, madam.

British fleet just got in,

50 miles off the coast,

and was fired on by a Maguadoran destroyer.

I mean, all hell's gonna break loose

down there any minute.

Patch me through

to London and Maguador City.

Right, ma'am. If anybody can stop them going

to war, it's the President of the United States.

Land Of Hope And Glory

Thank you very much.

How are you?

I recognise you.

MAN Well done!

From what I gather,

President Adams was not a little miffed.

Apparently, the White House

wanted us all to go on talking.

Huh! Talk about giving a man

on the guillotine an aspirin!

Until Maguadora

recognises Britain's right to sovereignty,

there can be no question

of pulling out our troops.

- Absolutely.

- It would be madness.

And now to another...

equally serious problem.

The record level of unemployment.

Now, some people argue

that this crisis is the result

of government mismanagement

and underspending.

They could not be more wrong.

Hear! Hear!

Because we all know what really causes

unemployment in this country, don't we?

Unemployment in this country

is caused by pixies.

I don't mean the nice, ordinary ones,

who sit on toadstools,

playing a whistle.

I'm talking

about the nasty, evil, malevolent pixies,

the tiny green ones

with the black, pointy beards,

who go around our factories -

and we've all seen them -

who go around our factories,

casting their wicked spells,

and bringing about mass redundancies

on a scale not witnessed

since the Great Depression.

Erm...

When did you actually form this theory,

Prime Minister?

Well, to be perfectly honest, Nigel,

the pieces only really sort of jelled in my mind,

so to speak, last weekend.

I was visiting a factory in Stockport.

Hundreds had lost their jobs, and small wonder.

The place was crawling with them.

With erm... pixies?

Yeah, pixies, sprites, elfin folk.

All manner of goblinry.

Certainly opened my eyes, I can tell you.

That's why I've launched this new campaign.

I see.

What campaign?

The Stamp Out Evil Pixies campaign.

The public have got to be educated

on this one, Nigel.

Mostly, they're about seven inches tall,

and they get in through the air vents.

Now, the worst type of all...

are the invisible ones.

Our support for Sir Mortimer Chris

remains unequivocal.

When the Prime Minister talks of er...

pixies... he is clearly using the term

in a metaphorical sense,

to er... denote disruptive elements

within British industry.

How do you explain the fact

that he has just set up an Anti-Goblin Unit

to bait them with gingerbread traps?

I think that's enough questions for today,

gentlemen.

He's brainwashed the entire country.

He's gone stark, staring, raving...

- Morning.

- Morning, Prime Minister.

Sorry I'm late, gentlemen.

Nest of leprechauns in the bread bin.

Right. Down to business.

Good. Well, having established the root causes

of the stagnation in the country,

what we need now

is a radical job-creation programme.

Now, I've devised one here

that will create half a million new jobs

in its first year of operation.

Basically, the scheme works like this.

Every week, 10,000 working people

jump off a cliff, thus creating

10,000 new jobs.

I've drawn up a white paper here, gentlemen,

if you'd care to cast your eyes over it.

Well, I think he's bloody marvellous.

He brought us through the war,

and I think he can do the same for the economy.

I am. I'm proud to leap to my certain death

for Britain. Hooray!

Bye! Well done.

Hello. How are you?

- I'm fine, sir.

- Jolly good. What do you do?

Well, I'm in industrial engineering, sir.

Oh, that's super. We can certainly do

with a lot more vacancies there.

Did you get everything you want?

Shall I give this one a push?

- Ooh!

- Good for you? Good for you? Good for me.

There we are. A little push. How's that?

Aaaargh!

Ah, right. OK. Next.

They do add up.

It may seem a little severe, but it's always the

horrid-tasting medicine that does the most good.

Right. That's it.

This has gone on quite long enough.

I've had all I can take.

Who are you ringing?

Let me see if I have this straight here

You're telling me

that the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom -

the man who has his finger

on Britain's nuclear trigger,

the man to whom we have promised

complete, unconditional support,

in anything he says or does -

is clinically insane?

That's a pretty fair summary.

From what the Foreign Secretary has told us,

and from our own intelligence,

there appears to be... little doubt.

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