We take a look at the made-up winners and losers under the new budget:

Susan and Barry Hopkins, professional married couple, Ludlow
Susan and Barry are each in work – Barry as a quantity surveyor, Susan as an administrator – and they have three children, a fixed-rate mortgage and a car that really needs to be repaired. Under the budget, they will lose £204 per year, which sadly will pale into insignificance compared to the debts Barry has got into with a Triad gang.

Doris Heppelthwaite, retired, Swansea
Doris is a 67-year-old former nurse who lives in a small, run-down maisonette and keeps three cats. In cold winters, she struggles to both heat her home and feed herself and her cats, and the Chancellor’s raid on pensioners’ income tax allowance would be expected to hit her especially hard. Fortunately, however, the losses from that will be more than offset by her discovery of an enchanted kettle that grants her the magical power to predict the derivatives market, so that’s all right then.

Plonko Sadface, entertainer, Cramlington
Plonko is a 34-year-old self-employed clown from the North-East who makes approximately £19,500 a year from his work in local shopping centres and with educational charities, and who is terrified of sex. He will lose out to the tune of £117 a year under the budget, but the tears he cries that slowly dissolve the tears painted on his face are not over the budget, but over Arthur, and that night five years ago when he could have said something, should have said something, but instead stood silent and petrified, and now they can never be together.

Lord Henry Dashington, industrialist aristocrat, Hampshire
Lord Dashington owns a series of failing manufacturing businesses, which he inherited after his father mysteriously vanished in the Congo, that have been hit hard by both the recession and his apparently dissolute lifestyle. But secretly, Lord Dashington is actually Britain’s greatest crime fighter – taking on the world’s most evil villains from his hi-tech base at Dash Hall, helped by his plucky niece Felicity and autistic savant butler Gerald. The budget’s moves on corporation tax, the 50p income tax rate and the decision to not implement a mansion tax will be of significant help to Lord Dashington – saving him enough money that he will be able to confront his greatest foe yet, the infamous Red Glove and his dreaded Six Fingers Gang, in the thrilling Adventure of the Bamboo Fish. Hurrah!

Jeremy Dysart, businessman, Fort William
Jeremy owns a local fish & chip shop, is an enthusiastic scuba diver and golfer, smokes 20 cigarettes a day, enjoys online gambling and collecting antique Toby jugs, and is an old school classmate of Chief Secretary to the Treasury Danny Alexander. He will be hit unusually hard by the budget, thanks to its raising of duty on cigarettes and the introduction of a new gaming duty; its imposition of taxes on scuba gear, golf clubs and “jugs or other receptacles that have faces”; its introduction of a “wedgie levy” on 39-year-old men in the Lochaber region; and the unexpected canceling of tax credits for anybody whose name rhymes with “eyes fart”. It is understood that the Lib Dem team under Danny Alexander fought particularly hard for these measures.

Rhahlgur, George Osborne’s former brood nurse
Vast and silent, she lies deep and cold in the darkness.

She is patient, as all her kind are; for a thousand years she has waited here, alone in the void, drawing her faint glimmers of sustenance from the baleful dull-red glow of a long-dead star.

All she has had, for aeons, are her memories. She can still recall the day that George Osborne and his countless nameless siblings clawed their way through her flesh and tasted life for the first time. Then they were things of teeth and scales; she remembers the cold flash of talons and the wordless screeching of a thousand thousand writhing children. That was in the time before they discovered the Dance of Forms, and played their way among the stars, wearing the flesh of lesser beings. Those were the good days.

She will not be affected by the budget, for she is a horror older than time itself, and she was not in the 50p tax band.

Of late, she has grown used to waiting; biding her time since she sent George Osborne and his terrible multitude of brothers howling across the wastes of space, seeking new sustenance. She knows that soon he will sing the song; the old nightmare song that summons his kin from across the stars, and that on the day that dread song is sung they shall be together again, as they were always intended to be, and that the ancient stars will burn anew, and the suffering will be reborn, and – at last – they shall feast once more.