While you were asleep: US Gov bans love, Theresa’s villainous speech, Santa Claus’ holiday home located

It’s almost the weekend. Almost. Before you start counting the hours, you should know that love doesn’t exist, Theresa May should have stayed in bed, and jolly old Saint Nick vacays in Turk-ay.



US Government enables hate to defeat love, granola.

As it turns out, the Food and Drug Administration doesn’t believe love exists. The look bae gives you, the reason why you walk through slanting tramline rain to crawl into bed with them in the small hours, the force that enabled your inadequacies to promote your suspicions; yeah, nah. Those three words that make the world go ’round is fiction. And it certainly is not on your palate when you masticate granola across from adjacent to that person in same-old morning light through same-old morning half-conversation


Jesus, FDA. Lay off.

Love is love. Even if it comes in a bowl.


Theresa May endures speech from hell, audience endures bad movie impression.

Even if you happen to be the second coming of Margaret Thatcher, terrible days can happen upon your person. With that in mind, Theresa May, in blighty parlance had a right ‘mare, m8. Facing her massed conservatives, she suffered the triple reverse of prop comedy, bangle criticism and dropped f-bombs. Frankly, we were a haddock slap away from a Monty Python skit.

For the sadists present, here’s the entirety of the wobbly blancmange for your dining pleasure. You monsters.


And yes, in the eyes of normal people, it wasn’t that bad as the headline might suggest. She didn’t turn up to work naked, or indeed, her acid didn’t kick in mid-speech as we wanted, but I do suspect that her speech may have been lifted wholesale from another source:




Santa Claus’ holiday home disturbed, writer renews gripe.

I’ve often wondered what Santa Claus gets up to in his 364 days off. Overnight, we seemingly have an answer. The Western world’s most empathetic factory owner/housebreaker is fairly kinky, apparently spending his leisure time under a church in Turkey.

Now, not that I have any right to judge the great man, but my eyebrow remains raised in suspicion.


I’m suspicious of your doings, Mr Kringle, because while you cop z’s, or do whatever you happen to do in that mausoleum, you could be procuring that model train set I asked for when I was 11. I’m 32 now, and I’ve done my best to be good. But each year, each Michael Buble playlist and each Boxing Day test presents me with unwrapped traditional disappointment. Once again, that long-promised rail connection still doesn’t stop by my living room.



The Top 5 Tweets from Overnight



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