Every Thursday, I would look outside my window at the hoards of clappers along my Islington street and wonder – what are these people on? Clapping for the NHS, our “beloved” Health Stasi, blissfully unaware that whether we clap or not, these “doctors” and “nurses” would have saved us anyway. Pathetic!

It’s long since time to put the NHS to bed, and this “coronavirus” charade only gives us more reason to argue for full-on privatisation. They’re only making up the numbers to make themselves look important, and to hide the truth about the Health Stasi and what they’re really up to.

For instance, did you know that your beloved NHS has data on you that would make you blush? Every illness, every cough, every injury you’ve ever had, is recorded on the Health Stasi’s centralised computer of shame.

I went for my annual check-up last month only to discover that the Health Stasi has kept a record of that time I accidentally slipped while naked and landed, anus first, on a vacuum cleaner that, upon my fall, I had accidentally plugged in and activated with my elbow. What else, I wondered, are they hiding from me?

Doctors furtively exchange notes in their scribbled handwriting, and experts have since revealed that these notes are indeed communist code. Further proof that the Health Stasi are not looking after us at all, but they are trying to control us by controlling our health – they very thing that we, as free people, should be looking after ourselves by going to private hospitals and private doctors whose motivation is money, and not the ultimate Health Stasi objective of totalitarian control of the population’s health.

Exercise more, they say. Do some star jumps. Wear a mask. What next? Jump off a cliff?

What further proof do you need of the Health Stasi’s desire for total control of the populace than the “coronavirus” charade that they are clearly making up. I haven’t had coronavirus, neither have you most likely. In fact, nobody I know has had it. Nobody they know has had it.

Does it even really exist?

To further prove my point, we have been holding “Coronavirus Dinner Parties” at our ten-bedroom townhouse in Islington, and not one of our guests has brought COVID-19 for dessert. True, Giles Coren did look rather peaky, but he reassured everyone between hacking coughs that he had only recently been to Brixton and mixed with some “people of colour” and we all laughed so hard that our mousse flambé flew out of our mouths with hilarity, splattering each other with sweet, sweet pudding.

And so, as Giles Coren departed that evening, his breath getting ever shorter and more erratic, I called my children Fluella and Tarquine downstairs and instructed them to clap for our private doctors and their offshore accounts, and to forever hold in suspicion the communist-led Health Stasi. And I reminded them that if ever a “doctor” were to stop by and ask about their father’s “incident” with a Dyson vacuum cleaner, then they were to tell him that their father does the cleaning naked because he doesn’t want to get his clothes dirty, although they would know that if the “doctor” in question had filled in his notes correctly.


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