Fuck me, Jesus, these poor fuckers, what are they like, eh, good job Mr Cameron's put me in charge, at last.
Frank Field MP, (Lab/Lib/Tory)
She's back, tut-tutting, in her sour, I-Know-Best, Jesuitical fashion: the Poor, money's no good to them, not like it is to rich people, like my new boss, the current, unelected prime minister. Oh, but Frank Field is the only man to tell it like it is. Aye, right, him and Vince Cable. And Nick Clegg.
What I hate about these slimeball parliamentarians is the monstrous hugeness of their egos, this fucking worm, Field, like Abbott, and Corbyn and fuck me, look out, here comes a thieving bastard Queen's Counsel Bob Marshall-Andrews, is that they languish, parliament after parliament, having been elected on a Labour ticket, lowerlipping and poisonpenning, Oh, I'm Old Labour, me, lacking the balls, the character, much less the political intelligence to split away and form another party, they hang around, neither use nor ornament, year after pampered, parasitical year, awaiting an opportunity, as has been granted Field, to stab both constituent and party in the back, reaching for what he's wanted all along, a place on the ermine-edged ToiletBench of State, nasty, creepy bastard.
An anti-war party might have flourished, become a beacon for those sickened by Blair-Brownism, but not sick enough to cross the Duncan-Smith/Howard/ CallHimDave floor. Hoey, that wrinkled old prune and ghastly whinging Ulster fishwife, passed-over for promotion, conflating her ineptitude with principle. bitching and griping ever since, she's another, like Field beloved of the mad, old, expatriot, rabblerousing Filth-O-Graphers, generally detesting the poor, the different and the fairer sex in equal measure but making an exception for Kate. And Frankie.
Never mind coalition, he should be deselected; what's the new word, recalled; it won't apply to the likes of Filthy Frank, man of principle, decent one-nation Tory, all along.