I would just like to say to the house, dah-dah-dah, Mr ah Mr ah Mr ah Tiny Speaker, say to the house, Mr Tiny Speaker that, dah, the people dah, the people, Mr Tiny Speaker, dah, dah, dah, the people, Mr Tiny Speaker, of Cockinmouth owe me a very great debt of courage and heroism and bravery, the people of Cockinmouth owe me a very great and substantial debt for my courage in not going there yet and paddling around in my wellies, like, Mr Tiny Speaker, like, Mr Tiny Speaker, like, Mr Tiny Speaker, all the employees of skymadeupnewsandfilth and nearly everyone at the BB fucking C. And this is exactly why, Mr Tiny Speaker, we are in Cockinmouth in the first place, to ensure that the people of the
A pack of emergency measure will be put in place, Mr Tiny Speaker, to financially assist the people of Cockinmouth to vote Labour, only not as much financial assistance as if they were MPs, doing a very valuable job of work, Mr Tiny Speaker, and have to be able to accept bribes and fiddle the books as they go about the great task of making this land safe for the Taliban, I mean from the Taliban. And the bankers, of course.
Members will know, will know, will know, Mr Tiny Speaker that I am a son of the fucking Manse and so closer to God than most and especially the gentleman, the leader, Mr Tiny Speaker, of the party opposite, who is a useless, Godless, coke-snorting heathen bastard and has no fucking chance whatsoever of making the waters abateth themselves, much less of fooling the British people, Mr Tiny Speaker, the British people, the British people, Mr Tiny Speaker into thinking that we haven't just given their future earnings, in perpetuity, to the banks of the New World Order (prop., not, unfortunately, our old friends, Lord Tony and Mrs Imelda Blair)
And so to all those wet voters in Cockinmouth I say Hold on, I'm coming and when I come we shall part the waters, even as in days of old, verily, I say unto you, a prophet is without honour in his own land, Mr Tiny Speaker, and, indeed on the world stage, too...
(waving of order papers, shouts: Fuck off, Snotty)
....so let us all sing now, together, Psalm 137.
By the waters of Coniston, there we sat down, yea and we wept, when we remembered an election was due...
9 comments:
Another corker.
I could almost hear the idiot.
Bonjour, mrishmael.blogspot.com!
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Will it become the norm, Mr Ishmael, for prospective Prime Ministers to have dead children in their back pockets? I mean, fuck the order papers, why not wave the tiny decomposing corpses?
Spamming bastard nipped in front of me.
While bridges often have weight restrictions, Cumbrian police officers apparently don't. Tis a shame and all, but Ol' Jowly's bandwagon leaping has induced in me an ennui so toxic it's misanthropic. One copper, three hundred soldiers. And the former would probably have floated without all the instruments of modern policing.
Cheers Mr Ish. The last fucking thing you'd want to see is that cunt if you'd been flooded - what a twat.
There seems a good chance that the forthcoming UK election, when measured in total fraudulent votes 'cast', will go down in history as the most corrupt ever (another ignominious first for Labour).
Vote early, vote often, vote Brown.
Years ago Private Eye organised an emergency wallet card instructing that, in the event of disaster the holder did not want to be a photo-opportunity prop for the Sainted Maggie.
This seem a good time to relaunch the card, declining a bedside visit and the "personal good wishes" of Snotty McDoom.
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