Old-age pensioner playboy, Andrew Nonce, was on fine form during last night's episode of This Week.
Straying into NoPersonsLand the playful Jock right-winger and fuckpig enquired of Diane Lard
and Michael Portillo,
if, in the light of the recent Battle of the Wives - Sam, Mrs Dave and Sarah-George, Mrs Snot and Wotsername, Mrs Clegg - either of them had ever felt pressured to reveal details of their marriages.
Oh, Fuck me, yes, said Dians, I'm a single mother see, and there's a lorra pressure.
Portillo squirmed silently, as though the top of his head was about to erupt like a Roman Candle, hurtling all his well-tempered punditry skywards in a gout of brain and blood and indignation; not a word escaped his luscious, Andalusian lips.
I mean, said Jock, echoing the young stanislav, Gordon Brown was TOLD to get married, wasn't he, if he wanted to be prime minister......?
Something there for Mike to leap on; something away from the enigma of his own marriage. Who told you that, he demanded, angrily, outraged , of the horrid old wigged degenerate and - flummoxed for once - Jocky Neil wrapped the show up, stuttering.
Older readers will recall the Saga of Michael Portillo and His Amazing Telephone Adventures, during which the half-Dago bullyboy and potential scourge of the poor bottled his opportunity to win the leadership of the Pinstripe Party; telephones installed in an impromptu campaign HQ, were never actually connected, as something forced Michael to drop out, leaving the Tory Party floundering in the hands of the Duncan-Smiths, the ludicrous HagueBitch, My-Kul How-erd and this fucking airhead dummy, Dave. The one man who would've kicked the shit out of Blair bottled it. If his reaction to Andrew Neil's relatively mild query is anything to go the Times's most distinguished columnist, for all his dinner party suavity and sophistication, lives in a world of fear; a case of Manuel, whatever you do, Don't Mention The Wife.
Oh, Fuck me, yes, said Dians, I'm a single mother see, and there's a lorra pressure.
Portillo squirmed silently, as though the top of his head was about to erupt like a Roman Candle, hurtling all his well-tempered punditry skywards in a gout of brain and blood and indignation; not a word escaped his luscious, Andalusian lips.
I mean, said Jock, echoing the young stanislav, Gordon Brown was TOLD to get married, wasn't he, if he wanted to be prime minister......?
Something there for Mike to leap on; something away from the enigma of his own marriage. Who told you that, he demanded, angrily, outraged , of the horrid old wigged degenerate and - flummoxed for once - Jocky Neil wrapped the show up, stuttering.
Older readers will recall the Saga of Michael Portillo and His Amazing Telephone Adventures, during which the half-Dago bullyboy and potential scourge of the poor bottled his opportunity to win the leadership of the Pinstripe Party; telephones installed in an impromptu campaign HQ, were never actually connected, as something forced Michael to drop out, leaving the Tory Party floundering in the hands of the Duncan-Smiths, the ludicrous HagueBitch, My-Kul How-erd and this fucking airhead dummy, Dave. The one man who would've kicked the shit out of Blair bottled it. If his reaction to Andrew Neil's relatively mild query is anything to go the Times's most distinguished columnist, for all his dinner party suavity and sophistication, lives in a world of fear; a case of Manuel, whatever you do, Don't Mention The Wife.
1 comment:
Oooh, bugger, I wish I'd seen that...
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