"And you say, mon ami,
that you work for le governement des Rosbifs?"
l
"Yes, Christine, in my country, too,
an old woman can be finance minister."
"Nobody is actually opposed to bonuses per se."
Alastair Badger, a Scottish solicitor and laughably the pretend Chancellor of the Exchequer, at the final NewLabour conference.
Actually, comrade, we are opposed to bonuses per se , unless they are awarded to all who exceed the requirements of their job description and not just to those who, already handsomely paid and pensioned, fail spectacularly to do so. Nurses, for instance, or paramedics whose prompt action saves lives, although not yours, you worthless gabshite.
"The taxpayer has put his hand in his pocket to bail out the banks."
Actually, comrade, you put your hand in our pockets, to bail out the banks, for whom you will shortly be working on a more formal basis; this a juxtaposition, it is true, more desireable than having, like yourself, Gordon Brown's nail-bitten fist up your arse, but not much more.
that you work for le governement des Rosbifs?"
l
"Yes, Christine, in my country, too,
an old woman can be finance minister."
"Nobody is actually opposed to bonuses per se."
Alastair Badger, a Scottish solicitor and laughably the pretend Chancellor of the Exchequer, at the final NewLabour conference.
Actually, comrade, we are opposed to bonuses per se , unless they are awarded to all who exceed the requirements of their job description and not just to those who, already handsomely paid and pensioned, fail spectacularly to do so. Nurses, for instance, or paramedics whose prompt action saves lives, although not yours, you worthless gabshite.
"The taxpayer has put his hand in his pocket to bail out the banks."
Actually, comrade, you put your hand in our pockets, to bail out the banks, for whom you will shortly be working on a more formal basis; this a juxtaposition, it is true, more desireable than having, like yourself, Gordon Brown's nail-bitten fist up your arse, but not much more.
3 comments:
Myths are often truths disguised. Now, consider the myth of the werewolf. For the most part, a normal human being, partaking of the everyday trials and rewards of mankind's interestingly flawed social structures. But, with a predictable regularity, changing gruesomely into a ravening beast who will tear the flesh from friends, family, and foes without regard to anything other than satisfying its ravening appetite for carnage. There is no reason where greed reigns: for those whose only rationale lies in comparative numerical magnitudes, what reason could there be for them to behave differently?
For the politicians, a hardwood club is the right argument, for they can only understand a point that is beaten remorselessly through their concrete skulls. But for the bankers, the only remedy that is guaranteed is a silver bullet.
Fuck me, look at that.
An ex-Marxist Scot and an galactically snooty Enarqe.
'De yer ken, Christine? Gordon saved the world with a bank bailout plan that a bloke in the treasury dreamt up and passed on to that fat fucking gobshite woman from the tea plantation women, who passed it up to Broon.'
'Och aye, every taxpayer in the country has lost his shirt, but I dare say that they haven't a single Chanel piece between them.'
She is a piece of work and no mistake, that gobby Treasury bint, ennobled like Lord Digby-Gay and just like him now running for the hills of charity and patriotism; such a festival it has been of greedy mediocrity; if only the Ruperts weren't such cunts one might wish for a coup.
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