It’s Trussing Season again in Bootiful Britain.

The nation’s turkeys are queueing proudly for the block, feathers puffed up, convinced the farmer’s really one of them. He talks their talk, shares their outrage, even has a pint on telly – what’s not to trust? The dream, of course, is that the animals have taken back the farm – though, as Orwell warned, it’s the pigs who end up running the place.

No more Brussels on the menu, having given Farmer Fartage chronic indigestion of late, with his flagship Brexit dinner now thoroughly overcooked and getting dreadful reviews.

The new dish of the day is Dover Roast: slow-cooked fear, basted hourly by GB News, served with a side of “taking back control”. “He’s saying what we’re all thinking”, they cluck, while the carving knives are sharpened quietly out of sight.

The Seasoning never changes – nostalgia, envy, and a pinch of someone else to blame. Then comes the Stuffing: hospitals stripped to the bone, schools left to stew in neglect, and welfare quietly scraped into the bin. The flock nods approvingly. “At least he’s keeping the boats out!” they gobble, as their own livelihoods drift gently downstream – straight into the gravy boat, where Farmer Fartage and his friends are already topping up their glasses.

The Basting continues – resentment sizzling in its own fat. And now come the Turkey Trots: a nation running in circles, sick from swallowing the same reheated slogans, yet somehow proud of its patriotic diarrhoea.

When Carving Time arrives, Farmer Fartage stands beaming in his Union Jack apron, knife gleaming.

“Now that’s what I call taking back control,” he says, slicing through what’s left of the working class.

“Bootiful,” sigh the turkeys, as the plates are cleared. The pigs, naturally, will be dining at the Ritz.