Saturday, 8 May 2010


Liberal Democrat leader in talks with bigboy.

This is how it is in adult democracies,
egotistical prats squabbling disastrously with each other.

Tiny, dapper Lord Steel, in a trademark shirt, sells-out his party, in traditional Liberal fashion.

Dr David Death,  the floozy on the right, said, with a toss of his leonine mane,  that Cameron was welcome to them, the Liberals. Load of lying fucked-up, spiteful cottagers and deranged Highland child molesters, said the smouldering old narcissist.
For his part, Lord David Abortion said that it was a woman's right to choose to be a Conservative and that's what they should all do.  The old, two-party system is dead, that's why we are becoming Tories. Hurrah!

Lord Shirt, famous for overseeing the ten-fold budget over-run on the hideous, leaking Scottish Parliament  - yes, tenfold, from fifty million to half a billion - said that he stood ready to serve his beloved Tory party, maybe as Minister of Public Works.

In a national emergency like this, it's all hands to the ironing board and I do feel it's my duty to place my considerable wardrobe of shirts, ties and  hankies at the disposal of the nation.

Lord Sir David Steel, former MP,  former joint-leader of the ShitEaters, journalist, abortionist and Speaker of the Tribesmens Parliament, ekes out his clutch of sinecures and pensions by lecturing on cruise ships, bless.


PT Barnum said...

Eek! Doctor Death! How could I have forgotten that sinister, faux-everything glove puppet with Baal's hand shoved up his innards? Amazing the entire world didn't declare war on the UK when he was Foreign Secretary.

What ever happened to Bill Rodgers? Did he die? Dimbledee never has him on QT not answering questions.

My brother, currently abiding across the sea in Germany, sends emails denouncing British politics as infantile and declaring coalitions the best option for mature democracies. He may be right, but we'd need an entirely new set of politicians and electors for that to happen.

Anonymous said...

I have noticed that there is not a lot of talk about the "gang of four" before they jacked the labour party to start their own partying in fucking Islington or where ever, the scum voted Kinock as new leader in then fucked off in a sea of publicity and oblivion as you say up against the wall motherfuckers, too good for them.

woman on a raft said...

For Anon: am steeling myself to read "Climbing the Bookshelves", Shirley Williams' autobiography, and have dipped in to ch. 14 "A New Party is Born".


I decided to leave the Party. Thousands of grief-stricken people wrote begging me to stay and that it would all go to pot without me but they offered to raise a statue to me as they understood my predicament. Tony Benn was hopelessly in love with me but I said "Tony, it is doomed, it can never be". He was insane with longing - people had begun to notice his swivelly eyes - and I did not wish to drive him to do anything silly, so I did not tell him that Jimmy (Callaghan) and that oik Denden (Healey) had also asked for my hand in marriage or at least my handkerchief as a favour, but my heart was lost to Michael Foot, that mad Dr Who of the radical left. Unfortunately, he only had eyes for his prices and incomes policy - which, incidentally, I had to write on my own because it turned out that he was a complete air head, just like all the glamour boys. I eventually realized that he simply didn't have the kind of mind - or any mind at all come to think of it - capable of appreciating a woman of my stature and passions.

I was smoking a panatella, gargling with HoC whisky and fending off the unwelcome attentions of Barbara Castle - who would do anything if it couldn't run faster than her, and she was a demon up the steps, was Babs - when that oik Denden Healey came by and reminded me he had been a tank driver who had organized and taken Anzio single handed, and was no stranger to levers of power and the throbbing engines of state. I looked to him to save us, but he didn't. All men are bastards.

There are 20 chapters of this and she's bound to issue an updated version in the next few months, so if you want any more about how she single handedly saved the lower orders by applying the lessons learned at her progressive nursery on the mean streets of Chelsea and wearing bad jumpers, you should wait until it is remaindered.

PT Barnum said...

Mrs WOAR, if it were written in that manner it would not have to be remaindered. Priceless.

Although a little mind bleach/amnesia pill is needed to banish the image of Dame Shirl (who I knew and greatly disliked in a previous life) being pursued by Barbara Castle.

call me ishmael said...

I can top that, Mrs Woar, one of the books in my little room is Imelda Blair: My Big Book Of Complaints or Whining For Myself, as it is otherwise known, to be featured in an upcoming Book Page Review entitled Oh, Please Don't Call Me M'lady, Imelda's Way With The Servants.

The Gang of Four, mr a, not only bequeathed us the foul famille Kinnock they also split the Left and ushered in Ruin, what is it now, thirty years of Blatcherism, uncontrolled banker gangsterism, the destruction of manufacturing, giveaway privatisations, the PFI debacle, plumetting educational standards, a massive over-reach of the criminal law, housing price bubbles and the cessation of council house building, unemployment a price worth paying, although not by directorships-rich Tebbit, the putrid privatiser; useless greedy pinstripe bastards and jumped-up Labour layabouts gorging themselves at the trough, the tawdry sexualisation of the breakfast table by prime ministerial mentor, Murdoch, and his non-taxpaying skymadeupnewsandfilth; the ascent, to national prominence, of braying filth like Kelvin McKunt and Rebekka Wade and all in the name of challenging the over-mighty unions. Now, instead, as you say, thanks to Thatcher's heirs Blair, Brown and Mandlestein we have the over-mighty bankers, lording it over a society of gated communities of Wealth and Greed and wasteland no-go areas of poverty, crime and neglect. Twenty years socialist first black woman MP and revolting gabshite, Diane Lard, has represented her constituency and even by her own account it is worse than ever, so bad she must send her own brat to a private school, insisting on comps for the rest.

I go on at some length about this for we are about to see those same poisonous, meddling, nasty cocksuckers assist, anew, the despoilation of what remains of Britishness whilst lecturing the feeble-minded about proper democracy, the darkest of dark outcomes, the party which saw its vote reduced, its grandiosity comprehensively repudiated now determining, reinforcing Ruin's stormtroopers. A pox on them and their families and their families' families. Traitors,thieves, scabs, hypocrites and degenerates; Up against the wall, liberal democrat motherfuckers.

PT Barnum said...

Mr I, your words say exactly what I feel, but far more eloquently and cogently. Thank you.

I attended the last Labour Party conference to sing The Red Flag at its close. And not a soul on the platform knew the words. They faked it by moving their mouths, randomly. It ended there for me. The great movement for social justice and freedom from servitude to the demands of the rich died, like ashes in the mouth.

That song is a hoary old chestnut, but it means something, tradition, a sense of history, of collective struggle, of hope. And they sneered at it, spat on it and replaced it with 'Things can only get better'. Yeah. Right.

call me ishmael said...

Fuck, so they did.

mongoose said...

The SDP! Laugh, I nearly fell down dead. Even I, and I have voted for everyone else in my time, even I, never got around to voting for the fucking SDP.

And I now have to watch your mate, Mr Ishmael, the Great Leader of the Haggis Race, going on about how there are other parties in Parliament with whom Labour could strike a deal. Who they, I wonder? One has to admire the chutzpah but, dear me, do you not have rope up there, and trees.

call me ishmael said...

In my neck of the non-woods, mr m, I have all the trees that there are, about a hundred or so, its not much, but it's my little forest.

I will take it that you mean your mate, in the Ulster sense of YerMan and no other, if you do so err and ascribe to me an undeserved Brownilia I merely direct you to The Sagas of Gordon The Ruiner, with which I had the pleasure of assisting my young friend, the plumber.

Shit though they were, the accidental impact of the SDP was huge, they are why we are here.

mongoose said...

Indeed. And they were the ruin of the bloody Liberal Party too.